Syndication Rites

"Yes, it is small," Smith admitted with a tired sigh. "But Petito is a counterfeiter. According to my information, it is likely he has started up his operation again since his release from prison."

"Like I said," Remo insisted. "You're sending the A-Team out after something even the FBI could handle." He quickly rethought his own words. "Well, maybe not the FBI. But the Cub Scouts or Brownies'd probably be up for it."

Smith was silent for a long moment.

In the privacy of his Folcroft office, the CURE director was settled back in his chair, his weary eyes closed on the darkening room.

How could he explain to Remo the reverence he felt for America and its institutions? Even the poor, beleaguered presidency. Although possessed with some latent patriotism, CURE's enforcement arm had never had very high regard for most politicians. He disdained Presidents in general, this current one in particular. Yet Smith was of a different generation, a dying breed. And if the President of the United States-any President-begged a reasonable favor of Harold W. Smith, the rock-ribbed New Englander with the heart of a patriot felt it his duty to honor that request.

"Please, Remo," Smith said at last. His tart voice was strained.

In the kitchen of his condo, Remo frowned at the effort in the old man's voice. It held an intense world-weariness.

Remo paused but a moment.

"Okay, Smitty," he said softly. "But let's get this straight. I'm doing this for you. No one else." Without waiting for a reply, he slipped the receiver back into its cradle. His expression was darkly thoughtful as he turned to the Master of Sinanju.

"You ready to roll?" he asked.

"One moment," the wizened Asian commanded. Kimono sleeves flapping, Chiun flounced from the room. He returned a moment later, a small plastic case gripped tightly in one bony hand.

"What's that?" Remo asked warily. By his tone, it was clear he already had his suspicions.

"Oh, merely something to make our ride more enjoyable," the Master of Sinanju replied airily.

"Bring the keys. The taping device in the car will not work without them."

He bounded out the kitchen door.

"Give me strength," Remo muttered softly. Praying for some mechanical defect in his leased car's tape player, Remo followed Chiun outside.

UNFORTUNATELY FOR REMO, the car stereo system worked perfectly. The speakers vibrated to Wylander's twangy voice as they drove out of the big parking lot next to the old converted church.

On their way out of town, they passed a slow-moving car driving in the opposite direction. Remo was so distracted by Wylander that he didn't notice a familiar face in the back seat. A black-and-purple bruise decorated a spot dead center in the man's forehead.

In the other car, the worried eyes of Johnny "Books" Fungillo scanned sidewalk and building. So focused was he on the street that he failed to see Remo pass by.

Both cars separated and slowly withdrew, fading to invisibility in the frosty January night air.

Chapter 15

Paul Petito was an artist in a world of heathens. This troubling thought weighed on him even as he inspected the first bills to run off his newest press. Petito had a jeweler's loupe jammed into one eye. The bills were clipped to three clotheslines in his basement workshop. A fluorescent light glared down over them.

The crisp lines of Alexander Hamilton's face looked back at him in magnified perfection. Hair, eyes, girlish smile-even the shadow beneath the nose. All perfect.

Flashing his own satisfied smile, Petito dropped the loupe into the pocket of his ink-stained smock. The bills had been run through the drier before he'd hung them up, so there was no danger of smearing the ink. With grubby fingers, he plucked them one at a time, depositing them in a plastic laundry basket. Once they were all harvested, he brought them over to the chimney. Grabbing them by the handful, he stuffed them past the small flue door at the chimney's base. They formed a crumpled bluish pile.

Petito took a book of matches he'd filched from a restaurant the night before and set the bills alight. The chimney grate was a fine wire mesh. Even if a wispy, incriminating ember made it to the top, it wouldn't escape into the neighborhood. When the flames had consumed the bills completely, he closed the chimney door.

These first ones had only been a test. He hadn't even tried to get the color right yet, let alone the paper.

As he pulled himself to his feet, Paul Petito wished briefly for it to be as easy for him in this modern age as it had been for the counterfeiters of old. Twenty years ago, it was a cakewalk. Now everything was tougher.

The Federal Reserve had begun to issue new multicolored bills with larger pictures, watermarks, special paper grains and identifying emblems visible only under certain light.

For Paul Petito, government meddling had become an almost unbearable nuisance. To make matters worse, the new wave of funny-money manufacturers working with computers and scanners were crowding the traditionalists off the field.

Feeling the pressure when he'd gotten out of prison two months before, Paul had approached several local crime figures in the hope of striking up a business partnership. Unfortunately, everyone was either tapped out, locked away or not even interested. Without someone to pony up the start-up costs, Petito was out of luck. Then strange fortune struck.

One afternoon as he was lying on his elderly mother's plaid sofa watching Court TV, the old rotary phone rang.

"Mr. Petito?" the voice on the phone had asked. "You don't know me, but I represent a party who is interested in helping you with the business difficulties you're having."

He spoke in a patronizing nasal whine, overpronouncing words in a vain attempt to smooth his New York accent.

Paul picked some gunk from his ear as he talked. "Pal, the only difficulty I got is that I don't have a business."

"And I understand it's not from lack of trying." The caller was cool and efficient and wasted no time in telling Paul that his employer would gladly send him the cash he'd need to get his presses rolling. There was only one small favor he would have to do in return.

"I'll do anything short of murder," Petito enthused.

"Please don't say such things," the man he would come to know as Mr. Sweet said "Not even in jest. Ever. As for the rest, I'll be in touch."

Sweet was true to his word. Within two days, the money was sent to Paul. Per his instructions, he used some of it to buy the Boston Raffair building; the balance he kept. The arrangement was perfect except for one thing. The people Mr. Sweet sent up from New York to guard his building.

From the start, they were always hovering around. They hadn't left him alone in weeks. Until last night. Paul didn't know whether or not he should be relieved for those two men from the surveillance tape. Because of them, Sweet's thugs had finally left him to work in peace.

They had stopped back briefly to say they'd tracked the young one as far as Quincy. A cabbie who'd driven him from the airport wasn't quite sure where exactly he'd dropped his fare. Somewhere near a church.

Johnny Fungillo had been nervous that evening when they'd gone back out. He kept warning the others that the young one was something special even as he brushed at his bruised forehead with his shaking fingertips.

Petito didn't need to be told that they were dangerous. He'd seen with his own eyes what the old one had done to Bear DiGrotti. As he worked, Paul tried to put all of the unpleasantness out of his mind.

There were still a few of the blue-tinged bills lying on a table near his photocopying machine. He had only just begun to sweep them up when he heard the noise. A popping crack of wood followed by the scattering tinkle of metal.

It had come from upstairs.

For Paul Petito, the panic grabbed hold at once. Someone had just broken down his door.

The bills were still clutched in his hands. No time to burn them. He looked left, then right, then down. Before he even knew what he was doing, he did the first thing that his frightened instinct commanded.

Hands flashing in desperation, he began stuffing the bills into his mouth. He was chewing frantically even as the cellar door opened. He almost choked when he saw who came floating down the stairs.

It was the two men from the surveillance camera at the Boston Raffair office. In real life, the old one's fingernails looked even sharper than they did on video. Petito's eyes bugged even as he continued chewing on the vile-tasting wad of paper.

"It smells funny down here," Chiun complained as he and Remo glided across the basement floor.

"You could have waited in the car," Remo replied.

"And allow you to sneak away on foot?" Chiun said blandly. "Oh, wipe that look of innocence off your face. You are as predictable as a two-year-old."

Remo's expression grew glumly guilty. "I would've left you the keys," he grumbled.

Before them, Paul Petito was rooted in place by fear. Dark blue saliva was dribbling down his chin when the two intruders stopped before him.

Remo stood toe to toe with Petito. "You gonna eat your printing press next?" he asked.

This bit of incriminating evidence hadn't occurred to Petito. His eyes grew wider above his puffed-out cheeks.

"Mmggmmm," Petito said, shaking his head as he chewed.

"Mommy forgot to tell you not to talk with your mouth full. Probably was too busy teaching you not to steal."

Reaching over, he cuffed Petito in the back of the head.

A fat wad of pulpy blue paper launched like a soggy cannonball from between his stained lips. It flattened with a wet splat against the cellar wall.

"Don't kill me!" Petito begged. His frightened mouth was a dark blue cave. It grew wider as Chiun swept forward. "Ahhhh!" the counterfeiter screeched, flinging his hands protectively in front of his face.

But instead of a decapitating pressure at his neck, he felt a gentle tugging at his hands. Before he knew what was happening, the remaining counterfeit bills he hadn't had a chance to chew were being pulled from his knotted fingers.

"Chiun, what are you doing?" the young one said wearily.

"Hush," the old one admonished. "I am counting."

Petito peeked out from behind his hands. The Master of Sinanju was laying out the bogus bills in one wrinkled palm.

"That stuff won't even buy a hotel on Baltic Avenue," Remo warned.

"Do not think you can trick me into giving you half," Chiun replied as he carefully flattened the bills.

Remo turned to Petito. "Okay, what's with that building you bought? And the first lie I smell gets you a one-way ticket through that." He pointed to the printing press.

Petito couldn't talk fast enough. "They mailed me the money from New York. I was the front so whoever really owns everything wouldn't show up on paper. Guy who contacted me was Mr. Sweet. I don't know his first name, uh, uh..." His mouth and brain struggled to keep pace. "Oh, some of the New York guys stay here. They saw him kill that guy at the office yesterday." He pointed to the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun had one bill loose and was examining it in the light. He seemed oblivious to the quivering counterfeiter.

Remo's face soured at the mention of the events at Boston Raffair. "Where'd that satellite dish go?" he demanded.

"The picture came here. They rigged it to a receiver in the yard. I've got the tape upstairs. Oh, and they sent a copy to Mr. Sweet back in New York. That's it."

Remo was about to ask more when Chiun broke in. "These bills are flawed," the old Asian announced, his brow creased.

Terrified eyes darted to Chiun. "I don't think so," Petito apologized. "They took months to engrave."

"The engraving is adequate." Chiun frowned unhappily. "Although there are many errors, most white eyes would be blind to them. It is the color. These ugly paper things are supposed to be green."

"I think he knows that," Remo said impatiently. Petito nodded. "I was just testing them," he explained.

Chiun's eyes narrowed slyly. "You can make them in the proper color?"

"It's not easy nowadays, but it's doable," Petito said.

Chiun folded his arms imperiously over his chest. In the process, the bills somehow disappeared inside his kimono.

"Do it," he commanded.

"Knock it off, Chiun," Remo said. "We're not helping this nit screw the United States government."

Chiun's hooded eyes were flat. "What has the government done for me lately?" he queried.

"Pay you a king's ransom in gold every year, for one."

Chiun erased Remo's words from the air with one flapping hand. "There is no reason why the one should have anything to do with the other," he dismissed. "If you hope your future Masterhood to be anything more than a footnote in the annals of Sinanju, you must be aware of opportunities when they present themselves."

"Chiun, I am not shackling this numbnut to the furnace back home, and I'm sure as hell not hauling all this crap out into the car."

"Not even if I make it worth your while?" Chiun asked craftily. A pair of blue ten-dollar bills appeared from the folds of his kimono. Thinking better, he pocketed one and offered Remo the other.

Remo shook his head wearily. Turning from the Master of Sinanju, he focused his attention back on Paul Petito.

"Before he's got you stashed in the hold of some freighter bound for North Korea, that's everything you know?"

The counterfeiter racked his brain. While there was certainly more, he couldn't seem to get it out in time.

"Uh, oh, um..." he began.

"Time's up, Gutenberg," Remo pronounced. Hand moving in a blur too fast for Paul Petito's eyes to even follow, Remo sank a single hardened index finger into the man's ink-soaked occipital lobe.

Petito's mouth formed a blue circle. He slipped from Remo's receding finger and toppled onto the stained floor.

When Remo turned back to the Master of Sinanju, the old man wore an angry scowl.

"You are a hateful man, Remo Williams," he accused.

"Just keeping you honest," Remo said. "Besides, the golden rule of Sinanju says paper is just the promise of real money. I've gotta call Smith." He headed for the stairs.

"Do not lecture me on the rules of our House, engraver killer," Chiun said, following unhappily.

"I did us all a favor," Remo said absently. He had suddenly noted a sound upstairs. "Sure, you wanted to bring him home today, but I know who'd end up having to feed him and walk him." His eyes were trained upward.

Chiun aimed a stern finger at his pupil. "You can explain to my grandchildren why they will not be receiving birthday gifts this year."

Bullying past his pupil, he had placed but one sandal on the bottom cellar stair when the darkened figure appeared at the top of the staircase.

Both of them had been aware of the man skulking across the floor above them, but Remo hadn't prepared himself for what the latest arrival would be wearing. Head to toe, he was dressed in the same commando outfit as the two men who had attacked him on the street in New York. The white button with its circle-in-parentheses design was affixed to his camouflage jacket. Through the holes of his ski mask, his eyes peered down the stairwell.

"What the hell?" was all Remo had time to ask before the man let a small object slip from his fingers.

A hand grenade clunked down the cellar stairs. Above, the masked man darted away.

With a puff of impatience, Remo scooped up the grenade, slapping both hands around it. When the grenade went off an instant later, Remo had softened his hands to relax his muscles, meeting the explosive force with an equal containing force. The grenade made a little clicking noise and died.

Remo tossed the still intact but now useless hand grenade to the floor.

"Let's see what's what with the khaki downhill set," Remo announced.

He and Chiun flew upstairs, racing out into the backyard where they'd heard the commando's boots clomp. The man was crouching in the snow near a squat brick wall, his index fingers tucking mask material into his ears to ward off the sound of the expected explosion. When he saw Remo and Chiun exit into the yard, his mouth and eyes widened in his mask.

"Okay, lodge bunny," Remo announced as they crossed over to him, "who are you guys and why are you trying to kill me?"

For a moment, the commando didn't seem certain what he should do. But as Remo and Chiun continued to walk toward him, he seemed to reach some inner conclusion.

Pulling another grenade from the pocket of his camouflage jacket, he wrenched the pin loose. Remo fully expected him to lob it at them, but the man did something completely unexpected. With a grunt, he thrust the grenade up under his own ski mask. For a moment, it looked as if his head had sprouted a particularly grotesque tumor. Then he was gone.

The commando flipped over the brick backyard wall. There was an explosion from the other side, and the sky began to rain little flecks of red-streaked slush.

"Dammit," Remo growled, "not again."

When they looked over the wall, they found a corpse with a crater where a head used to be. The little white button was streaked with black.

"And I am not very fond of the type of boys you are playing with these days," Chiun sniffed beside him.

Twirling, he marched back through the snow toward the house.

WHEN THE PHONE RANG, Smith was dozing in his chair, the dull light of his desk lamp the only illumination in his shadowy office. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he picked up.

"I'll give you three guesses who was just attacked by another button-wearing commando," Remo announced.

Smith's brain snapped instantly alert. "Like the ones in New York?" he asked worriedly.

"Right down to the suicide-before-capture work ethic. Looks like I was right. They work for Raffair."

Smith was still trying to absorb the information. "No," he said. "It does not add up. You were not a risk when they went after you in New York. I have been thinking that they could be associated with MIR."

"The Puerto Rican terrorists?" Remo asked. "No way, Smitty. They'd have no way to find me unless they followed me from San Juan. And I didn't sense any beady little revolutionary eyes watching me on the plane home. Anyway, I've gotta keep this short, seeing as how I'm using that counterfeiter's phone and right now there's a blown-up commando sleeping in his neighbor's petunia bed. The guy's boss is named Sweet. No front name, but he's in New York."

Smith adjusted his rimless glasses. "That limits the search parameters. Anything else?"

"There was more than just the one guy Chiun kacked back at the office. Sounds like there's a whole goon squad out looking for us right now."

Smith's lips thinned. "I was afraid of that."

"Still no bigee," Remo assured him. "They've got a needle in a haystack's chance of tracking us down. And you don't have to worry about us ending up on 'Bloopers, Boners and Beheadings.' This is where the video was fed. That Sweet guy got the only other copy, so it looks okay on that front." In Boston, Remo glanced at the floor from where he sat at the edge of Paul Petito's bed. Spools of videotape coiled like silvery serpents on the worn carpet.

"Very good," Smith said. "I will commence the search for Sweet. In the meantime, the two of you may return home. I will contact you when I learn more."

"Check," Remo said. "But don't call for a while. We're going out to eat first."

When he glanced at the Master of Sinanju, he saw that the old Korean was standing just inside the bedroom door. He was once more examining one of his blue ten-dollar bills.

"I'm paying," Remo added firmly as he hung up the phone.

Chapter 16

The information was damning enough to topple the United States government.

Mark Howard hunched behind his desk in the bowels of CIA headquarters. Although he stared at the swirling screen saver on his computer monitor, his thoughts were miles away.

All was quiet save the soft background hum of equipment. The murmuring voices were gone for the day. Few people haunted this part of the building so late at night.

The overhead lights had been dimmed. They'd been encouraging such penny-saving measures at the CIA for much of the past decade. The money saved could be redirected to buying field agents actual bullets for their guns.

In the shadows of his cubicle, Mark had read the report out of Boston twenty minutes before. Even though he'd been looking specifically for it, he hadn't expected to see it.

The feeling again.

Paul Petito was dead. Local authorities had found him on the floor of his basement. At first, they'd said the counterfeiter had died from a single gunshot wound to the head. That had soon been amended. Now they were saying his skull had been pierced by an object unknown.

To Mark, the details of Petito's death were irrelevant.

He'd couriered his Raffair dossier to the President this morning, after a personal phone call from the chief executive. In those documents was a fresh printout with Paul Petito's name. To replace the one Mark had doodled on.

Death. That's what he'd written next to Petito's name. And Petito was now dead. A secret arm of the executive branch, sanctioned to kill.

Anyone who knew about this was at risk. And now Mark Howard knew. Knew for certain.

For some reason, the President was involving him in this. Though he had tried to figure out why, no feelings came to him. The sense of dread swamped all else.

For a long time, Mark merely sat. A shadow among shadows. At long last, a leaden hand reached out and shut off his computer. The internal fan hummed to silence.

He thought of Petito. A hole pierced in his skull. Of Smith and his unknown agents.

His cubicle was eerily quiet. The dark walls, close.

He wouldn't be trapped. Couldn't allow thoughts of defeat. Fate was coming for him. He had to be ready when it arrived.

As he rose to his feet, the first hint of determination clenched his jaw. Mark Howard gathered up his topcoat. It was winter, after all. He didn't want to catch a cold on the way to meet his destiny.

Chapter 17

Johnny Fungillo knew enough to be scared. The others hadn't a clue. They had only seen the old one in action, and even so, they still thought he'd used some simple sleight of hand to take down Bear DiCrrotti. But Johnny Books alone had seen the young one up close and personal. Twice.

In East Africa, he'd managed to take down two of Johnny's oldest and dearest friends in the blink of an eye. If Johnny's guess was right, he was even faster than the old man. The second time he'd met the skinny guy with the thick wrists had been a complete shock.

Back in Africa, most of New Jersey's Renaldi Family had been wiped out by a bunch of crazy natives with spears. Johnny had been forced to scrape up this current gig from Sol Sweet, attorney to the wrongly incarcerated Don Anselmo Scubisci. He had been absolutely stunned when on the plane ride up to Boston he'd found himself staring into those dark, dead eyes again.

He couldn't move fast enough to avoid the man's darting hand. Before he knew it, the guy's finger was pressing his forehead.

That simple touch had completely paralyzed Johnny. While he wanted to scream at the doctors who stared down at him after he'd been transferred by ambulance to Boston's St. Eligius Hospital, Johnny couldn't budge an inch. Some were saying that he'd be stuck like this for the rest of his life. And he might have been, if not for a fluke.

His first and only night in the hospital, the nurses on his floor had ordered ice-cream takeout from Friendly's. The portly RN who was checking in on Johnny had been in a hurry to get out to her melting cookies-'n'-cream sundae. While struggling to reset his IV with one hand, the impatient woman had banged him on the forehead with the full bedpan she'd been clutching in her other hand.

It was a one-in-a-billion shot, but apparently the edge of the bedpan had hit him just right. The woman almost had heart failure when Johnny sat bolt upright in bed and demanded his pants.

When Johnny had showed up at Paul Petito's house twelve hours late and with a big swelling bruise on his head, no one had even bothered to ask what had happened to him. Such was the nature of their business. And Johnny Fungillo would have been happy to never, ever mention that skinny, dead-eyed stranger with the lightning-fast hands-if not for the damn surveillance pictures.

Johnny was new to the Scubisci Family. He couldn't risk not telling when he saw that face again.

Yet even when he and the others had set off in search of the young guy and the old Chinaman, Johnny had kept a low profile. He'd stayed in the car at Logan while the others circulated the pictures they'd gotten from the video; he'd hunkered down in the back seat after they'd learned their quarry had gotten a cab to Quincy; and he had said a silent prayer to the Madonna when the angry neighbor with the crying baby had pointed out the big ugly stone church on the corner.

Luckily, the occupants of the building weren't home. When the two men he had driven with came out to collect him from the floor of the car, Johnny had to first thank the Virgin Mary for not dropping him in the path of his antagonist again. He doubted he would have survived a third encounter.

Inside looked like a bunch of small apartment units that had never been used. Only a few of the rooms in the whole complex looked lived-in.

"Should we wait for them?" one of the Scubisci regulars had asked once the three of them had done another sweep and had turned up empty.

They were in one of the ground-floor kitchens. It looked to be the only one used in the whole building. A table that was set so close to the floor it looked as if someone had stolen the legs was pushed neatly against one of the walls.

"No way," Johnny Books insisted. He was sweating near the door. "Didja see all those fish tanks downstairs? These guys are heavy-duty weird. Can't we just-I don't know-leave them a nasty note or something?" He gave a hopeful, lopsided smile.

"That old guy was pretty fast," agreed the first man who'd spoken.

The third man in their party, Mikey Skunks, considered. Although he would never admit it, he was a little concerned about the old codger, too.

"Sweet never told us what to do 'xactly," he mused. "Maybe we just gotsta show 'em not to mess wit us no more."

Johnny felt a weight lift from his shoulders. "I'll look for a pen and paper," he enthused. He spotted some on a shelf near the phone and jumped on them.

"No," Skunks insisted as Johnny grabbed up the notebook. Skunks Falcone was examining the gas stove. "It's gotta be a stronger message."

When they finished their work ten minutes later, Johnny Fungillo was still wishing that they'd opted to leave a note. Something with a lot of very cross underlines and angry exclamation points. He was thinking this even as he ran with the others through the downstairs hall of the old church.

All three men were breathing through the tails of their untucked shirts. They passed through the main kitchen and hurried out the side door. The stove in the main kitchen hissed ominously as they ran by.

While Johnny and the other man caught their breath in the parking lot, Skunks went to the trunk of the car. He returned a minute later clutching a Coke can in his big paw. A gasoline-soaked rag hung from the open end.

The two others were climbing in the car even as Mikey Skunks was hauling back. He heaved the gasfilled can through the open door of the kitchen. When flame met hissing gas, the explosion was instantaneous. With a rumbling burst, the entire kitchen erupted in a ball of brilliant fire.

Windows exploded into the parking lot, spraying sparkling shards across their parked car. A wave of heat and flame belched through the open door even as Skunks was jumping into the front seat.

Shocks sank in protest to his weight. Another explosion sounded from deeper inside the church. More breaking windows. Up the short flight of stairs, flames curled up from the open door.

The fire ate a voracious path through the big building. When Skunks slammed his door, the entire first floor was already engulfed in flame.

"Dat's a message." Mikey Skunks nodded surely. His face was cast in weird shadows by the dancing flames.

In the back seat, Johnny Fungillo felt his stomach liquify. Even as the car backed up to turn, he was wishing they'd left a simple note.

Reflected on the back window pane of the accelerating car, lethal licking fingers of flame sought the cold second story of Castle Sinanju.

ONE MINUTE BEFORE Mikey Skunks lobbed his fatal soda can, Remo and Chiun were driving up the long road home.

"You're lucky they didn't call the cops," Remo was complaining.

In the passenger seat, Chiun's face was blandly innocent. "Is generosity now a crime?"

"It is when you try to tip the waitress with blue counterfeit bills."

"I fail to see the difference between my currency and the scraps of green you use," Chiun sniffed. "In fact, mine are superior, for as art they are worth much more than their face value. And by killing their creator, you have made them collector's items."

"You would've had a better time bartering with a six-pack of Billy Beer or an Action Comics number one, Little Father," Remo said. "Next time just leave the check to me."

The old Korean's face was a dark scowl of incomprehension. He was thinking unpleasant thoughts about what constituted art in the Western world when the first small rumble reached their car.

An explosion. Amplified to their highly tuned senses through the compressed air of the moving car's tires.

"You think the city's working on the roads this late at night?" Remo asked, puzzled.

Morose on the seat beside him, Chiun shook his bald head. "Do not ask me," he replied. "I am but a visitor to this backward land."

A succession of soft booms. All from a very specific direction. Behind the wheel, Remo began to feel the first soft knot of concern form deep in his belly.

He saw the reflection of orange flame on the snow-lined street before they'd even reached the corner.

"Oh, no," Remo said, his voice soft with shock. Beside him, the Master of Sinanju's weathered face flashed to instant horror.

"Our home!" the old man cried.

The entire first floor of the remodeled church was already ablaze. Flames threatened the second story. Remo squealed to a stop in front of the building. The Master of Sinanju shot from the front seat like a bullet from a chamber. Arms and legs pumping in furious unison, he attacked the main stairs. Remo sprang around the car, flying in his teacher's wake up the staircase.

"My possessions!" the old man cried.

The front door was closed. One sandaled foot sent it crackling into the foyer. A vicious wall of fire and impenetrable black smoke burst out into the chill night.

Remo ducked back from the flames.

The hallway beyond was completely engulfed. Walls, floor and ceiling formed a hellish path to the staircase. The stairs themselves crackled and burned.

Despite the inferno, the Master of Sinanju pulled in a deep breath.

Remo grabbed him by one bony arm.

"Are you nuts?" he yelled. "You can't go in there!"

"Unhand me!" Chiun shrieked in a voice that was not his own. The old man twisted and pulled, slipping from Remo's grip. Before the younger man could stop him, he'd bounded through the door.

Across the wall of flame, Remo could see the wizened Asian leaping from one burning stair to the next. In a heartbeat, he was gone.

Remo was about to go in after him when he heard the sound of a car door slamming out beside the building. It was followed by a squeal of tires.

Twisting from the burning doorway, Remo sprang down the stairs like a demented grasshopper. He was running before his loafers brushed the icy sidewalk.

Legs pumping in perfect, furious rhythm, he ate up the distance between front and side of the building just in time to see the car speeding across the parking lot.

He was shocked to see a familiar face in the back seat.

Johnny Fungillo was slouched in the shadows, a half-dollar-size bruise decorating his forehead. Sinanju had long ago trained Remo away from anger. Yet in that moment it was not even simple anger, but pure unbridled rage that descended like a pouncing primal thing on Remo Williams.

It came fast and furious. Exploding in heart and mind.

Propelled by rage, Remo flew at the car.

It was racing out into the street. He'd intercept it easily. Make Johnny Fungillo pay.

Running. The car twenty feet away. Ten.

A sudden voice behind him. High. Frantic in the crystalline night air.

"Remo!" Stopping, spinning.

Chiun was framed in an upper-story window, small and frail against the burning backdrop. "Help me!" he pleaded. He flapped his kimono sleeves at the smoke that was curling up from the lower story.

Remo hesitated. Behind him, the car bounced over the sidewalk and out into the street, speeding away. Fungillo hadn't even seen him.

He could still catch them. Even with the vehicle driving full out, he could outpace the rapidly accelerating car.

But he couldn't abandon Chiun. Ever.

Remo let the men who'd set fire to his home go. He flew back across the parking lot. Sliding to a stop beneath the open window, he threw out his arms.

"Jump, Little Father!" Remo yelled up through the roar of flames. "I got you!"

A scowl formed on the old man's soot-streaked face. "Don't be stupid!" Chiun snapped down through the choking smoke.

The old Korean's head disappeared back inside the upper-story window. A moment later, Remo saw the sharp contours of a steamer trunk peek like a timid child over the windowsill.

It didn't linger on the window ledge for long. As soon as it had cleared the frame, the trunk rocketed downward at a speed far greater than the simple pull of gravity. When it reached his level, Remo reached out and snagged the trunk from the air as easily as if he were picking a ripe plum from a tree. He set it on the ground.

Chiun hadn't been in trouble. The Master of Sinanju only wanted Remo to stand below the window and catch every one of his fourteen lacquered steamer trunks.

Chiun's worried face appeared once more. Some relief came when he saw the trunk on the asphalt at Remo's feet.

"This is why you stopped me?" Remo snarled. In the distance came the first sound of fire trucks.

"Less chat, more catch," Chiun snapped.

Wisps of hair above his ears quivered in the smoke. His head vanished once more.

A second trunk followed the first.

As he was stacking the third trunk atop the first two, Remo glanced angrily down the street. The car was long gone. Red streaks of light sliced the night as the first fire trucks raced into view.

Yet another trunk peeked over the sill.

"Pay attention, imbecile!" Chiun's voice commanded as he launched the latest trunk downward. Remo snapped the luggage from the air.

The fire engines, followed by two ambulances, tore into the parking lot. Lights continued to flash all around the street, stabbing crazed patterns across snow and tar. Running firemen quickly hooked hoses to a nearby hydrant.

By now the ground floor and most of the second story were engulfed in flame. Windows shattered, sending shards of glass out across the sidewalk and parking lot.

A fireman raced through the falling glass, helmet tipped low to keep the shards off his face.

"Get out of here!" he yelled angrily at Remo.

"In a sec," Remo insisted tensely.

"We almost done here?" he yelled up.

Another of Chiun's trunks appeared. It flew at supersonic speed to the ground below. Remo snatched it before it crushed the fireman to jelly.

"My God!" the man gasped, stumbling back. "There's someone in there?"

"Yeah, but don't worry. He'll be through in a minute."

The fireman wasn't listening. "Get the life net!" he screamed out to his companions.

As the firemen scrambled around one of the trucks, Remo took a rapid count of the trunks. Twelve. Only two more left.

"Get the lead out, Little Father!" Remo shouted. Another trunk appeared, flying down at him.

As Remo was piling it with the others, he noticed a hint of yellow silk sticking out of one side. Although some of the trunks remained packed in perpetuity, others had been emptied over the years. Chiun was racing around, collecting his belongings. From this angle, Remo could see that the flames had reached the Master of Sinanju's room. Flickers of orange light played along the visible walls and ceiling. Through it all, Chiun was packing.

Fear and concern formed a tight ball in Remo's stomach.

"Forget it, Chiun!" he yelled up to the open window.

Eight firemen ran through the parking lot from the street. They carried a collapsible aluminum device that they quickly folded open. It snapped into a rigid circle. A fireproof mesh was strung across the interior of the hollow metal tubes.

"Stand back!" a fireman bellowed at Remo.

Remo ignored him. "Hurry, Chiun!"

A hand took his bicep. Glancing over, he found a Quincy police officer at his elbow.

"Move!" the cop ordered, yanking.

Remo didn't. The cop's hand sprang loose and he went into free fall, landing on his rump in a puddle of melting snow.

At last Chiun appeared at the window.

The sill was ablaze. The old man had to battle flames as he wrestled the last of his precious trunks out into the open air. It dropped like a stone.

Remo snatched the trunk before it hit the life net. He put it with the rest.

The roof was going now. A section collapsed inward.

"Now, Chiun!" Remo begged.

Before he'd even finished the shouted plea, the old man sprang into view. He flew through the open window like a genie from a lamp, kimono hems tucked modestly between his ankles. Once he'd cleared the wall of flame, Chiun tightened himself into a ball and allowed gravity to take hold.

A delicate collection of frail bone and flesh, he fell the two stories to the life net, hitting with no more force than a dropped feather. Tipping the net, the firemen rolled him to his feet.

A few men grabbed out for him. The old man slapped their helping hands away.

He hurried to Remo's side. "Remo, our home!" Chiun cried.

Remo's grim face was reflected in the tiny Asian's moist eyes. "I know, Little Father," he nodded, his voice soft.

The life net was dragged to one side. Nearby, men were running a hose to the open kitchen door. Pressurized water and searing flame fought a battle, the outcome of which was known already to all.

The fireman who had gotten the life net was at Chiun's side. "Oxygen!" he called to his men.

"I am fine," Chiun snapped. Sadness laced his anger. His hazel eyes were fixed on the collapsing building. His and Remo's home for a decade.

"We've got to get you to a hospital," the man insisted.

"Dammit, he's fine," Remo growled.

Through the choke of nearby smoke, the fireman inspected the old man for the first time. He was surprised that Remo appeared to be correct. There was hardly a spot of black on his robin's-egg-blue kimono.

No time to argue. He stabbed a finger at Remo. "Is there anyone else in there?" he demanded.

Remo shook his head. "No," he volunteered quietly.

Satisfied, the fireman hurried off.

The Master of Sinanju's trunks were dangerously close to the burning building. Remo grabbed two of them, carting them quickly to the far side of the parking lot. He was stunned on his return trip to find Chiun carrying two toward him. Chiun never, ever carried his own trunks. But they'd never been in immediate peril like this before.

Without exchanging a single word, the two men passed each other, Remo to grab two more trunks, Chiun to place his with the others before hurrying back for more.

They were finished in a matter of minutes. Standing amid the pile of steamer trunks, Remo and Chiun both turned to the condominium complex.

By this time it was blazing out of control. All the firefighters could do was wet it down and try to keep the embers from sparking other fires in the nearby houses.

The roof of the former church collapsed completely, bringing down with it the glass-enclosed turret that was the entire third floor.

Chiun's meditation room. For ten years, he had welcomed the morning sun in the former bell tower. Crowds had gathered along the street. Men and women in nightclothes gawked and pointed.

Through it all, Remo and Chiun stood, silently watching.

Remo had always insisted that he hated that building. When it became their home, it had been Chiun's doing, not his. But as the old structure collapsed in on itself, he felt as if a piece of him were dying, as well.

He glanced down at the Master of Sinanju. Chiun said nothing. Chin jutting firmly in the air, he viewed the nightmarish scene through damp hazel eyes.

He seemed so old and frail. So lost.

Remo put a gentle arm around Chiun's shoulders. Before both Masters of Sinanju, the fire raged, uncontrolled; consuming utterly the place that they called home. And as the spit of sparks took flight in the cold night sky like January fireflies, the hellish conflagration was reflected in the single salty tear that rolled down the old Korean's weathered cheek.

Chapter 18

The morning breeze that blew in from the Tyrrhenian Sea hinted at a mild Naples winter's day.

It was a good wind. Not warm, but certainly not cold. It came from the east. From the direction of Corsica and Sardinia. Intolerable was the breeze from farther south; from hated Sicily.

That air was always foul. Even if he were blindfolded and lost in the vineyards, the old man sitting on the tidy stone patio, wrapped in a thick wool sweater, would have been able to know if he was smelling that vile Sicilian air.

The island of Sicily rested like a mound of shit at the toe of Italy's boot. Its people were filthy to a man. Its women had no virtue. Its children were cradle-bred thieves. When that wind blew, he would hide inside like the sons of Moses waiting for the Angel of Death to pass by.

But this was not Sicilian air, thank God. It was good, fresh air from far north of that hated den of cutthroats and brigands.

The old man took a deep, cleansing breath. White early-morning sunlight showered brilliantly over the vines below his terrace. Men already worked amid the tidy rows of dormant plants. Pruning and tying the vines in preparation for the next growing season.

Although the big house behind him cast a gloomy shade over the patio, he still wore sunglasses. The sun would peek around the house by nine, and at his age he liked to be prepared. For anything.

Through tinted lenses, he looked up at the man who had just arrived on his glass-enclosed terrace. "Nothing yet?" the old man asked.

"Silence so far," the younger man replied apologetically. He was dressed for the Italian winter, a black woolen cardigan beneath his thin jacket.

The old man frowned thoughtfully.

A glass of red Aglianico sat on the wrought iron table before him, pressed from his own vineyards. Picking up the glass by the stem, he took a thoughtful sip.

"Perhaps we were too clever," he said, replacing the wine to the table. It touched the metal with a click.

"Don't worry, sir," the younger man said. "It's only been a few days since New Jersey. Less time since Cuba. Someone has to recognize it soon."

The old man smiled wistfully, exposing a row of corn-yellow teeth.

"I am impatient, I know. It has been a long time. I suppose a few more days will do no more harm than the last eighty years. Avanti," he said, shooing the man away.

Alone once more, he took another sip of wine. The wine was as disappointing as the news from America.

He'd been a young man during World War II, back when the tanks of the Allies had rolled into Italy to crush the hated Il Duce once and for all. The old man had met many Americans then. Most had seemed quite clever.

They had returned home from their great victory in Europe only to raise dullards for children.

He had been certain they would have figured it out by now. It really wasn't even that clever. In fact, it had been designed to be obvious.

Below him in the vineyards, men continued to snip and tie.

The gently blowing breeze died down. The death of the wind brought fresh warmth to the Campania region.

It was going to be a warm day. Maybe it would break a winter record. Pondering the weather, the old man reached for his crystal wineglass.

Chapter 19

For some reason, Remo had left his phone off the hook. Smith had called steadily until one o'clock in the morning. After that he had given up.

Bone tired, the CURE director had dragged himself home for a few hours of sleep. By six the following morning, he was back in his office.

With practiced fingers, Smith located the recessed switch beneath the edge of his desk. The light from his buried computer screen swelled within the black depths of the desk.

The preamble to the United States Constitution appeared on the start-up screen. As he did every morning, Smith read the words carefully before getting to work.

He pulled up the Raffair file.

The information on Sol Sweet was there. Graduate of Harvard. Attorney in New York. One notable client.

Smith frowned as he read the client's name. He had hoped to never see it again.

Scubisci.

CURE had had several run-ins with the New York crime family in the past. Most notably with the deceased patriarch, Don Pietro. Remo had eliminated the old Don a decade ago. After his death, his son had taken control of the Family's interests. But Anselmo Scubisci was in prison now. If it was he who was running Raffair, he was doing so while a guest of the federal prison system.

They would know more once Remo had interrogated Sweet.

Smith picked up the blue contact phone. Without looking at the old-fashioned dial, he quickly entered Remo's number.

Still busy.

Frowning, Smith replaced the phone.

The Master of Sinanju might have been disturbed by a telemarketer. Sometimes when this happened, he took out his anger on every phone in their condo.

It still might just be off the hook. Smith decided to try back in a little while. If it was still busy, he would have to consider alternate ways to get in touch with Remo.

He turned his attention back to his computer screen.

Raffair.

Smith looked at the word with fresh eyes.

The dawning of a new day had not changed the feeling that there was something to the word itself. On some unknown level, it was still somehow familiar to him.

With both hands, the CURE director drew open the middle desk drawer. He pulled a notebook and pencil out onto the flat onyx surface of his desk. Sometimes when high-tech equipment failed, it was best to go back to the basics.

He carefully spelled out RAFFAIR in neat block letters. Once he was finished, he looked at what he'd written.

"Raffair," Smith said aloud.

Still, no secret was revealed by speaking the word.

Smith was sure that it was no acronym-either civilian or governmental-that he had ever encountered before.

The word affair was obvious. It had occurred to him many times over the past few days. But the letter R at the beginning changed it completely. "R," Smith said.

He placed a gnarled hand over the letter. "Affair."

Lifting his hand, he placed it over the last six letters of the word.

"R," he repeated out loud. All at once, the light dawned.

"Affair," Smith said excitedly, his voice loud in his tomb-silent office.

With a thrill of discovery, he pulled his hand away.

The CURE director was amazed when he looked down on those simple seven letters. It was so obvious he was angry at himself for not having seen it before. They had spelled it out for anyone to see.

R. Affair. Our Affair. Or in Italian, Cosa Nostra. The Mafia was behind Raffair after all.

So brazen were they, the name appeared in the stock market listings of newspapers across the country and around the world. Organized crime was trading on Wall Street. With remarkable, frightening success.

This was too important to wait. If he was unable to contact Remo through familiar means, he would have to place a call to Western Union.

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 you 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 pinched 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."

Before Remo could argue, an electronic beep sounded from the depths of Smith's desk. The CURE mainframes deep in the bowels of Folcroft's basement had pulled some new data from the Net. Smith brought up the latest information.

"Raffair has finally established a corporate headquarters," Smith said as he read the report the computers had flagged. "It opened in New York this morning."

"Wasn't that place you sent me and Chiun to their HQ?"

"No," Smith said. "Lippincott, Forsythe, Butler merely coordinated Raffair's start-up. Until now, it has been an entity without a visible head, which was why I've had such a difficult time tracking ownership."

"Okay, so now that we've got a home base, we can find out for certain who's behind it."

Smith was staring down at his desk, a sober expression on his gray face. His fingers were resting on his buried keyboard. "We know now," he said evenly.

"Why?" Remo asked. "What've you got?"

The CURE director looked up, his flinty eyes flat. "I know this address," he replied tersely.

Chapter 21

From the outside, the Neighborhood Improvement Association in Manhattan's Little Italy appeared largely as Remo remembered it. After parking his car farther down the block, he and Chiun stopped on the sidewalk in front of the Mott Street entrance. Around them, Chinatown continued to encroach on what had formally been exclusive Italian-American territory.

"Did you not slay the Roman lord who ruled from this ugly castle?" the Master of Sinanju asked. There was little enthusiasm in his voice.

"That was Don Pietro," Remo replied. "Thanks to good old-fashioned Mafia nepotism, his kid took over where he left off. Although Smith says he doesn't technically own the joint anymore. He had to sell it to some dummy corporation for legal expenses or something. Come on."

They mounted the stairs and passed beneath the shiny new Raffair sign on their way through the front door.

They found that the real change had taken place within.

The aroma of tomato sauce and the ancient fuzzy wallpaper were both gone, as was the Old World gloom. Stylish artwork now hung from whitewashed walls.

Several of the downstairs rooms had been opened up. This one big room was filled with fresh-faced young men in long-sleeved dress shirts. They were performing a frantic dance from computer terminals to telephones. To Remo, they looked as if they'd been transplanted to Little Italy from some sterile Wall Street office.

"I don't like it," Remo complained as they passed through the foyer. He looked as if he'd smelled a particularly foul odor. "It had a kind of Untouchables charm before. Look, they even got rid of the guys who used to shoot at you when you walked in," he said, sounding like a kid who'd gone all the way to Disney World only to find that Space Mountain was closed for renovations.

They were past the empty receptionist's desk and had reached the end of the hall where old Don Pietro used to have a private office. Remo was reaching for the door when he felt a bony hand press his forearm. When he looked down at the Master of Sinanju, there was a hard glint in the old man's eyes.

"We are not here for Smith's nonsense," Chiun warned. "We are here to learn who it was that burned Castle Sinanju."

The pang of guilt that had rested in the pit of Remo's stomach since the previous night swelled larger. "I know, Little Father," he said quietly.

His pupil's tone brought the first hint of suspicion to the old Korean's face. He squinted one eye as he examined the younger man. "What is wrong?" he queried.

"Huh?" Remo asked, suddenly alert. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. What makes you think there's anything wrong?" He quickly changed the subject. "Anyway, our goals mesh with Smith's here. He just wants us to find out who's running the show."

Chiun's expression did not change. "Just as long as you know which is more important."

Remo nodded. Turning from the old man's penetrating hazel eyes, he reached for the closed office door.

The old walnut door had been lovingly sanded and refinished. When Remo's palm touched the surface, the beautiful antique door cracked viciously along one side. A fragmented chunk of wood held the dead bolt and knob in place as the rest of the door screamed around on its twisting hinges. It slammed with a thunderous slap against the interior office wall.

Inside, a harried little man with slicked-back hair sat at a polished oak desk. When he saw Remo and Chiun glide into his office a split second after the door, the tumbler of Scotch whiskey he'd been lifting to his lips slipped from his shaking hand. It struck the desk's surface in echo to the crashing door.

Sol Sweet jumped to his feet, backing against the wall. His gelled hair bumped a picture frame.

"Oh, God, no," Anselmo Scubisci's lawyer breathed.

"No introductions in order, I see," Remo said. His face brightened when he saw the two other men in the office. "Now, they're more like it," he mentioned to Chiun, pointing.

Sweet's two huge bodyguards were lumbering up out of their chairs. Chiun stood between them and Remo.

"Why don't you have them out front?" Remo chastised the lawyer. "Give them some frayed lawn chairs, maybe a couple of muscle shirts. You know, if he knew what you'd done to this place, Don Fietro would be spinning in his grave right about now." He advanced on the lawyer.

"Stay back!" Sweet ordered, his forehead already breaking out with sweat. "You're trespassing here! I can use force against you!"

"Sounds serious," Remo said. "More force than that?" He jerked his thumb to one side.

Sweet heard two soft thuds hit the wall-to-wall carpet even before his eyes darted right. When he saw what Remo was pointing to, he had to slap a hand over his mouth to keep the alcohol in his stomach.

Chiun stood between Sweet's two bodyguards, his arms upraised. Suspended from each of his extended index fingers was a guard. The Master of Sinanju had snagged each man with a long talon in the soft tissue beneath his chin.

To Sweet, it was obvious that those nails were even longer than they'd seemed on videotape, for neither of his two bodyguards appeared to be doing much in the way of living. Their eyes were already growing glassy. Blood dribbled from their tightly closed lips, splattering the beige carpet.

The sound Sweet had heard was that of their guns striking the floor. The weapons sat useless below their dead, dangling toes.

Like a demented orchestra conductor holding a note too long, Chiun bore the men aloft. When his nails at last withdrew, the two behemoths collapsed into a six-hundred-pound pile of limp Sears polyester-blend suits.

Chiun's hands retreated to his kimono sleeves. Sol Sweet felt his mild arrhythmia knot into the first fluttering fist of a full-fledged seizure. "Anselmo Scubisci!" he gasped, panic dancing across his wide-open eyes. "He tells me what to do. He's serving three consecutive life sentences at Ogdenburg Federal Penitentiary in Missouri. I can drive you to the airport." He tore holes in his pants in his desperation to remove his car keys.

When he held the jangling key ring aloft, he felt a bony hand slap against his own. The keys screamed across the room, embedding deeply in the wallboard.

Sweet was clutching his chest when he looked down.

Chiun had circled the desk and was standing below him.

"Did you or he order the destruction of our home?" the Master of Sinanju demanded in a tone that chilled the very air around them.

Despite the cold frisson up his spine, Sol Sweet's chest still burned. "Neither one of us did," he panted. He was becoming light-headed. Blood pounded in his ears. "Those men acted entirely on their own. Well, for the house-burning part. Not the killing-you part. They were sent to do that. But that was obviously before I knew what wonderful, caring, dangerous people you both are. May I take a nitroglycerine capsule?"

"No," Remo and Chiun said in unison.

"Splendid," Sweet enthused. He pulled his left arm close to his chest. If he held it tightly enough, he almost could dull the horrific pain that was shooting up it.

"Are you the one who's sending all these lunatic hit men in ski masks after me?" Remo asked.

Through the pain, Sol Sweet grew confused. "Hit men?" he asked. "No. Just the ones who burned down your house. Did I mention how terrible I feel about that?"

On the other side of the desk, Remo frowned. The lawyer wasn't lying. Remo had been sure the attacks of the past few days had been the work of whoever was behind Raffair.

Chiun steered them back to the most important topic. "Where are your lackeys, that they might pay for their wicked deed?" His eyes were truth-detecting lasers, boring twin holes into Sol Sweet's whirling brain.

"Here," he gasped, "lemme..." He staggered to his desk. With a shaking hand, he wrote down three names on a yellow legal pad. "They're hiding," Sweet wheezed as he handed Chiun the sheet. "Don't know where they are. But that's them, I swear."

The old Korean accepted the paper. Sweet felt a pinch of relief when Chiun retreated to the other side of the desk.

"Well, if that's all the business we have, I think I'll just call up an ambulance." He forced a weak smile on his suddenly very pale face.

"Not all," Remo said, shaking his head. "What the hell is this Raffair thing all about?"

"Oh, that," Sweet said. Reluctantly, he took his hand off the phone, grabbing again at his burning chest. "Mr. Scubisci has opened up the business opportunities of organized crime to the masses."

Remo looked to Chiun. The old man was interested only in the scrap of paper in his hand. He turned back to Sweet.

"You're doing what with the what now?" he asked.

Sweet leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes weakly. "Lot of people have a lot of money to invest these days. More regular folks are building portfolios. Scubisci is giving the common man the opportunity to invest in what's historically been a very lucrative field."

Remo blinked. He didn't like the sound of where this was heading. Evidently, Smith had been right.

Sweet had his eyes closed tightly now. His face was ashen and his lips were turning blue. Hands pressed over his heart in a mockery of penitence, he panted out the words in labored spurts.

"Raffair exists as a public cover for the Scubisci crime Family, as well as several others. Money generated by stock purchases goes to developing company infrastructure. Raffair expands, investors reap dividends, company grows, new investors come aboard, Raffair expands more." Sweet's too-white tongue brushed his cold lips. "Is this room spinning?"

"No," Remo answered.

"Oh," the lawyer whimpered. "Anyway, with the money we've made already, we've been able to invest in better methods for narcotics distribution, which feeds a host of other ventures, like gambling, prostitution and bribery. Our great success has been passed on to our stockholders."

Remo couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're telling me ordinary people are buying stock in the Mob?"

"An archaic term," Sweet said weakly. He opened his eyes. "Is someone gonna shut off that damn alarm?"

"How do people even know about all this?" Remo asked. "It's not like you could take out an ad in the Wall Street Journal."

"When the stock's hot enough, word gets around," Sweet said. His ears pricked up as he strained to listen to a sound only he could hear.

"Ah," he sighed, relieved. "They finally shut it off." Eyes rolling back in his head, he collapsed face first on his desk.

"Are you done?" Chiun asked impatiently. He stood near the door, anxious to leave.

"Yeah." Remo nodded. He was turning from Sweet's twitching body when a sudden thought occurred to him. "Oh, crud," he groused.

Quickly flipping the lawyer onto his back, he drummed his fingertips hard on his chest just above the heart. Catching the rhythm of the fluttering attack, he established a counterrhythm that he forced the muscle to follow. The arrhythmia caught, slowed and tripped to a normal pace.

Sol Sweet's eyes rolled open.

"Sorry to interrupt," Remo said, "but I forgot to ask. They said in Boston you got a copy of that tape with us on it."

Sweet nodded numbly. "There." He pointed to a corner closet.

As Remo went over and popped the door, the attorney sat up. The pain was gone in his chest and arm. Even the light-headedness had vanished. His face was flushed as his color returned.

Remo found but one videotape in the closet. Turning, he held it out to Sweet. "This it?" he asked. Sitting on the edge of his desk, the lawyer nodded. "It's the only copy," he promised. "I took it from the direct satellite feed."

"Great," Remo said. "Off you go."

The hard look in the intruder's eyes told Sweet precisely what Remo meant.

"Wait!" he begged. He leaped from desk to chair, away from Remo. "Where's Anselmo getting the cash for all this?" He waved an index finger all around. "The Scubisci Family's been broke for years. Anselmo's been spending it like water these past few months. Believe me, I don't come cheap, either. I think there's someone behind-" He stopped in midsentence.

An odd sensation had just flitted under his rib cage. Different from anything he'd ever experienced before.

"Oh, my," Sweet said, inhaling sharply.

"Someone other than the Dippy Don's behind this?" Remo asked. He was thinking of the men who'd attacked him. If Anselmo Scubisci wasn't responsible, maybe this other individual was.

Still squatting on his chair, Sweet fumbled in his pocket, producing a small business card. He flung it at Remo. "Scubisci...24A...answer ...questions..." His voice grew more labored as he looked down in utter confusion at his own chest. The pain was back, worse than ever. "What's happening?" he gasped.

"Hmm?" Remo asked, glancing at the card. "Oh, that," he said as he pocketed it. "'That's just your heart exploding."

Sweet looked up in abject horror. At that precise moment, the struggling muscle in his chest swelled and burst, flooding his thoracic cavity.

Face contorting in a rictus of excruciating death, he fell backward. His chair rolled into the wall, and his head smashed into the heavy Monet print that hung over the desk. Lawyer, picture and chair crashed to the floor. The glass shattered, and the frame settled about the rounded shoulders of Sol Sweet.

Remo tipped his head as he examined the attorney, conjoined in death with the French countryside, "I don't know much about art, but I know what I like," he said dully.

"Can we go now?" the Master of Sinanju complained.

"Yes. No, wait." Remo glanced around the room. "A fire for a fire," he said in a low voice.

Remo found a wastebasket next to the desk. He filled it with computer paper from an idle printer. Pushing the wooden desk against a wall, he sat the wastebasket on the floor in the desk's foot well. He lit the paper with a lighter collected from one of the dead bodyguards. Once the fire had started, he smashed the lighter on the desk's surface.

As an afterthought, he tossed the incriminating video into the burning basket.

"Now I'm ready," he said coldly.

When they left the office, the surface of the desk had already flashed to life, igniting the wall behind it.

Smoke and flames were spitting out the door as they crossed the foyer. The young men in starched white shirts continued to race around the open room, oblivious to the fire that was rapidly engulfing the small back office.

"Let's get them out of here," Remo said.

"Why?" Chiun sniffed. "If they are in league with the villains who burned our home, let them also blister on the pyre that will consume those malefactors."

"If we can get them out of here, maybe they'll jam the street enough that this place'll burn to the ground before the fire trucks can get through." Bracketing his mouth with his hands, he took a deep breath. "Fire!" he yelled into the bustling room.

Although he was certain many of the men had heard, there was no reaction. They continued to switch from computer to phone, lost in the electronic roller coaster of day trading.

Remo tried yelling again, louder this time. Still no reaction. By now, the flames were licking out of Don Pietro's old office and up the hallway.

"I have been through one inferno already," Chiun said, peeved. "If you want this one, you may have it." The old man spun and darted out the front door.

Smoke was pouring in from the hall, hovering in ominous clouds beneath the fluorescent lights of the big room. Obviously, the men knew now that something was wrong, yet their adrenaline-fueled greed held them in place. Remo decided that he needed to find something that would motivate them even more than fear for their lives.

Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out a fat roll of hundred-dollar bills. He flapped the cash in the rolling clouds of smoke.

At first, there was no reaction. But all at once, a face turned his way. It was followed by another, then another.

Like a herd of gazelles on a scent, the entire crew of traders soon had heads in the air, sniffing the aroma in the smoke. The room grew very still. All was silence save the crackle of flame at Remo's back. Remo moved the bills to the right.

All eyes followed.

Remo brought the bills to the left. The pack tracked the movement with their eyes. Some of the men were starting to drool. Continuing leftward, Remo moved over to a front window. With a flick of his wrist, he popped it open. The window shot up, burying deeply in the wooden frame.

He flapped the wad of bills one last time before throwing them out the open window. They caught the breeze like autumn leaves.

"Fetch!" Remo yelled.

Chaos erupted in the Neighborhood Improvement Association. Men shoved and screamed on their way to the exits. Some jumped out the one open window while others smashed the sealed windows with chairs and computer monitors. Screeching brakes and honking horns rose up from Mott Street.

Remo turned from the suddenly empty room. He cast one last glance at the growing wall of flame. Thinking dark thoughts about the men who had set fire to his own home, Remo slipped out the front door into the growing commotion on the street.

Chapter 22

Remo caught up with Chiun on the sidewalk down the street from the Neighborhood Improvement Association. Behind them, men dashed for cash, clogging traffic. The first thread of black smoke was curling into the cold sky.

"Finally," the Master of Sinanju said as Remo trotted up beside him. "Smith can aid us in our quest. Let us hie to his stronghold."

"As long as we're in the neighborhood, let's check out the address Sweet gave up first. It's supposed to be right here on Mott Street."

"If it is not the address of the grape-stompers who burned down my home, then it is irrelevant," Chiun replied.

"We'll get to them, Little Father. Promise," Remo said. "But we're here now, so wouldn't it be easier to get this out of the way now than have to come back?"

A scowl of impatience crossed Chiun's weathered face. "Very well," he relented. "But be quick about it."

Remo used the business card Sweet had given him to steer them to the right address. As they strolled down the sidewalk, the Master of Sinanju glanced at his pupil several times. His brow finally sank low.

"You are hiding something," Chiun announced abruptly.

Remo felt every joint stiffen at once. "What do you mean?" he asked with forced innocence.

"Please, Remo," Chiun droned. "As an actor, you make a truly great assassin."

The guilt was more than Remo could bear. Since there was no good time for this, he decided to get it out of the way.

"You know when you went up to get your trunks?" he began, his shoulders sinking. "That car that drove away?" A deep breath. "I knew one of the guys," he exhaled.

Chiun stopped dead. When he looked up at his pupil, his hazel eyes were narrow slits. "Explain yourself."

For the first time since his earliest Sinanju training, Remo's palms felt sweaty. He wiped them on his chinos.

"Remember how I told you about that guy I met on the plane? The guy I'd seen when we were in East Africa?"

"Spare me your tedious antics," Chiun clucked impatiently. "I did not listen then, and I am not interested now."

Remo took another deep breath. "Turns out the guy from East Africa was one of the guys who burned down our house," he blurted.

The Master of Sinanju's eyes split wide. Stunned white orbs grew large beyond vellum lids. "You led him to us," the old man hissed.

"I guess," Remo confessed. "He must've helped them track me from that video." He hung his head in shame. "I'm sorry, Little Father."

He waited to be screamed at. To be told he was an idiot and a blunderer. Instead, he was met with silence. For Remo, it was far worse than all the other alternatives combined.

When he glanced up, the Master of Sinanju was still staring at him. The Korean's face had grown utterly flat.

"Aren't you gonna say something?" Remo questioned awkwardly.

Chiun's head began an ominous low roll from side to side. "Words elude me," he intoned thinly. Remo thought he'd braced himself for anything. But the Master of Sinanju's troubling stillness caught him off guard.

"Do something, then," Remo prodded.

"Like what? You are too old to spank and too important to my village to slay."

"I don't know," Remo said. "Maybe a punch in the arm or something. I mean, anything."

Chiun stroked his wispy beard thoughtfully. His slender fingers had not reached the thready tip before Remo felt an increase in air pressure beside him.

He didn't duck out of the way. Eyes closed, he took his medicine, allowing the bony hand to smack him soundly in the side of the head.

Chiun's darting hand quickly retreated to his kimono folds. "That did not help," the old man announced, unsatisfied. He whirled away from his pupil, storming off down the sidewalk.

"Worked for me," Remo grumbled.

Rubbing the side of his head, he trailed the Master of Sinanju down the street.

THE MOTT STREET Community Home stood amid a cluster of seedy brownstones half a city block down from the burning headquarters of the Scubisci Family.

The name made it sound to Remo like the sort of place that had sprung up around the country starting in the sixties. Designed to keep kids out of trouble, all of those places inevitably became a focus for the kind of troubles they were supposed to distract from.

This community home was different, given the fact that its clientele was considerably older than Remo had expected.

"It's an old-folks' home," Remo said when they'd stepped through the Plexiglas front doors. "I am in no mood for your age bashing," Chiun hissed.

As they headed down the hallway to the nurses' station, Remo shook his head.

"I just assumed from the name that it was one of those places where punks go to score drugs. The ones with the pool table with one missing leg and the posters encouraging the joys of prophylactic use among the preteen set." They were at the main desk. "This can't be right," Remo frowned. "Sweet said a Scubisci would be here."

"And why wouldn't one be here?" Chiun said, an undertone of intense displeasure in his squeaky voice.

"Well, I suppose Great-uncle Phineas Scubisci might've been mothballed here twenty years ago," Remo said. "But we're looking for someone a little more current. Someone who knows who's really pulling the purse strings on Raffair, and who maybe knows who these guys are who keep trying to kill me. I assumed it was old Don Pietro's grandson or something, but this is about as far out of the loop as you can get. Let's get out of here."

"Hold," Chiun insisted. He fixed his gaze on the nurse behind the desk. "Does a Scubisci reside here?"

"Room 24A," the woman nodded, pointing down an adjacent hall.

The Master of Sinanju swirled away from the desk.

"This is silly, Chiun," Remo said, hurrying to keep pace with the purposeful gait of the old Asian. "I agree. Therefore let us get it over with quickly so that we can attend to more important matters."

The comingled smells of antiseptics and medications poured from open doorways. Remo hesitated outside room 24A, but Chiun bullied by him.

Inside the small room were two beds. One was neatly made. The covers of the other were a crumpled mess that hung in a tangle off to one side.

An ancient woman sat in a vinyl chair near the window, an unlit cigarette dangling from between her dry lips.

She'd been plump a lifetime ago. Now the empty flesh hung off her shrunken frame like dirty sheets draped across a sagging clothesline.

Her black dress-extra large at one time-was a loose-fitting rag. The woman's ankles were too swollen for shoes. An unused black pair was tucked beneath her chair.

Rheumy eyes looked up as Remo and Chiun entered.

"You got a match?" she threatened.

Remo rolled his eyes. "Chiun, let's go," he whispered.

"Hush!" Chiun insisted. To the old woman he said, "Signora Scubisci?"

The crone pulled the cigarette from her lip. "Atsa me. You gotta match, or no?"

"Sorry, no," Remo answered.

"Eh." She shrugged, lowering the unlit cigarette. "They just take it away from me anyway."

"We beg a moment of your time," the Master of Sinanju said, bowing politely. He motioned to Remo.

"What?" Remo asked from the corner of his mouth.

"Ask her whatever foolishness it is you need to know," Chiun prodded. "And I would appreciate it if you did not draw her a map to the Sinanju treasure house while you are doing so."

Remo felt silly. Obviously, in his last minutes of life, Sol Sweet had had the courage enough to lie. Remo was surprised. The lawyer seemed too scared to offer anything but unvarnished truth.

"Sol Sweet sent me," he began reluctantly.

A light of understanding sparked in her ancient eyes.

"Oh, the Jew," the old woman said. Without another word, she reached for the table next to her chair. It was scarred with the deep black furrows of old cigarette burns.

Resting on the table was a plain manila envelope. A gnarled hand dropped across it. She dragged it across the table, flinging it to Remo. He snatched it from the air.

There was an airmail sticker on the envelope. It was addressed to "A.S. c/o Angela Scubisci, Mott Street Community Home." Along with the zip code and street address was the legend "New York, NY. U.S.A." There was no return address.

"A.S.?" Remo asked, reading the initials. "Anselmo." She said the name with contempt. "He issa my son. Didn't the kike tell you?"

He looked at the woman with new eyes. "He forgot to mention it," Remo said dully.

"Hah," the woman scoffed. "You know my son?"

Remo thought of the day he'd met Anselmo Scubisci. He had been on assignment, sent after the Don's younger brother, Dominic, Angela Scubisci's only other child.

"Only saw him once in passing," Remo said. A hard glint came to his deep-set eyes. "We knew your husband, though."

Both he and the Master of Sinanju had watched old Don Pietro Scubisci breathe his last.

The widow Scubisci pounded a blue-veined hand against her sagging chest. "Oh, my Pietro. Now there was a man who respected family. Even that idiot boy of ours, Dominic-God rest his soul-he knew where hissa loyalty should be. Not Anselmo. He don't respect hissa family."

Remo steered her away from the topic of family. "Sweet said you knew something about your son's backer."

The old woman sighed a pained, raspy exhalation. "It's in there," she said, pointing to the envelope. "All the betrayal. He no respect hissa father. All my Pietro's work, gone. That boy issa no good."

Brow furrowing, Remo tore one end off the envelope. He reached inside, pulling out a single sheet of paper. The printing was in some foreign language.

"Hey, whaddayou doing!" Angela Scubisci demanded.

He ignored her. "I can't read this," Remo said, handing the note off to Chiun.

"Atsa for Anselmo," the woman insisted angrily. "This is the language of the Kingdom of the Two," the Master of Sinanju pronounced.

"Twenty-first-century equivalent?" Remo asked.

"Italy," Chiun replied, displeased at having to use the modern name. He frowned as he read the lines. "There is nothing of interest here. It is merely a note of thanks for some unmentioned success."

"Hmm," Remo said. "Could be from Scubisci's backer. Does it say who he is?"

"It is unsigned," Chiun replied.

"Maybe Smith can track him from this." Taking the note back, Remo stuffed it back in its envelope before shoving it in his pocket. "You know who sent this?" he asked the old woman.

Unable to move, she sat glaring at the two strangers.

"No," she snarled. "They never tell me. I only know itsa from Napoli." She tipped her head. "Whassa you name?"

Remo figured it would do no harm to answer. "Remo," he admitted.

Her angry features softened. "Atsa good name," she said, nodding. "Paisan. I bet you don't turna you back on you family."

"Oh, I can tell you stories," Chiun offered coldly.

The widow Scubisci paid no attention to the old Korean.

"You work for that Jew, Sweet?" she asked Remo.

"No," Remo said. "And that anti-Semitism must make you the belle of the ball on mah-jongg night. Let's go, Chiun."

"You take that Jew-boy out, didn't you?" Angela Scubisci called as they walked away.

When Remo turned back, her eyes had grown crafty.

Remo thought of how he'd left Sol Sweet, picture frame hanging around his scrawny neck. "Actually, I sort of put him in," he admitted.

She tipped her malevolent witch's face forward. "You goin' after Anselmo now, ain't you?" she cackled. Clapping her wasted hands, Angela Scubisci grinned, flashing black gums and a sorry trio of sharp brown teeth. "You get him for what he do to his poor father's memory," she said happily. "He think it's enough he get that kike lawyer of his to pay for me to stay here. He tella me he have me thrown out if I don' pass on his filthy, traitorous mail." Her Halloween smile broadened. "You getta him good now, Remo." She seemed delighted to say his name. "Him and those Napoli bastards."

"Napoii?" Remo asked. "Naples, right?"

Angela Scubisci spit on the shabby floor. "Don' talka to me about those diavola tonno." She spit again, wiping drool from her chin with the back of one ancient hand.

"What's wrong with Naples?" Remo asked. This time, the widow Scubisci tried to spit at him. He twisted and it slapped viciously against the ratty wallpaper.

"Chiun?" Remo asked, confused. The old man stood near the door.

"She is Sicilian," he explained with growing impatience. "Clan warfare has divided both provinces for generations."

"And my Anselmo has got on his knees for them Napoli dogs," Angela Scubisci snarled. "Iffa my Pietro was alive, it woulda been different. The family always come first to him." She raised both hands above her head. Loose black sleeves rolled back to reveal flesh-draped biceps. "Oh, if he wassa here now, I'd make him some of the fried peppers he love so much. And after he eat, he woulda have one of his caporegime shoot that traitorous boy of his right inna the face."

"Must've missed a lot of Mother's Days," Remo commented aridly to Chiun.

"I am not interested," Chiun hissed. "Now come. We have dallied here long enough." In a whirl of kimono skirts, he ducked back into the hallway.

Remo looked once more at Angela Scubisci. The old woman's withered hands were still upraised. Sitting in her chair, she was stretching toward the ceiling, muttering soft invocations.

"Oh, Pietro," she intoned, her hopeful, damp eyes turned upward, "thissa fine boy gonna pay back Anselmo for what he done to poison your memory."

She waved her prayerful arms from side to side. At the door, Remo thought of all the schemes of old Don Pietro that CURE had been forced to thwart, of all the innocents who had fallen victim to the evil old man.

As he slipped through the door, he called back to the ancient widow of Pietro Scubisci, his tone icy cold.

"If you want to get to your husband, lady, you're reaching in the wrong direction."

Chapter 23

"Anselmo Scubisci's not the top dog after all, Smitty," Remo announced. He was on a pay phone in the lobby of the retirement home. "Sounds like he's running things from jail for somebody else."

"To you know who?" Smith asked.

"Nope. Mrs. Scubisci didn't know."

"Mrs. Scubisci?" Smith questioned.

"Or Mother Scubisci, depending on which one of her Riff Raff Sam relatives we're talking about. Weird thing, Smitty, but I was just thinking she's one of the few members of that family I've met that I haven't killed. Not that the temptation wasn't there."

"I found her to be charming," the Master of Sinanju disagreed. He was standing at Remo's elbow. He seemed to be attempting by restless expression alone to hurry the conversation along.

"I'm not surprised," Remo said to Chiun. "She's the first mom I ever met who opted for capital over corporal punishment." To Smith, he said, "The nasty old battle-ax wants us to ice her own son. She's pissed at him for throwing in with some foreign investor for Raffair."

Chiun shook his head testily. "Not just any foreign investor, Emperor Smith," he called. "The man he has taken up with is from Naples."

With his last word came a phlegmy sound from down the hall. A fresh wad of spit flew out the door of Angela Scubisci's room.

"I'm glad I'm not in charge of mop duty around here," Remo commented. "Anyway, Chiun's right. She wasn't upset that junior was a murderous son of a bitch, just that he'd gone into business with someone from the dreaded N-province."

"I understand why," Smith said. "It is an odd arrangement, given the fact that the Scubisci Family has its origin in Sicily."

"Sicily, Naples-I still don't know what the big deal is," Remo said.

"There is a very old rivalry between crime interests in both cities. Although it exists now throughout Italy, Sicily is the traditional home of the Mafia. The branch from which the Scubisci Family extends is quite strong there."

Remo didn't know how it came to him. But at Smith's use of the word now, something sparked in his brain. He felt his hand tighten on the receiver.

"Now," he stressed, stunned at his own deduction.

"What is it?" Smith asked, curious.

"You said exists now," Remo said excitedly. "What about before? Like years ago?"

"I do not follow."

"Remember East Africa? The defense minister there made a deal with some kind of old Italian crime syndicate. Dinty Morra or something like that."

An instant's hesitation on the other end of the line as Smith picked up the thread. "Camorra," he announced, the shock of realization in his steady voice.

It was during CURE's last crisis. Renegade forces within the government had threatened to turn the African nation of East Africa into a haven for crime. The defense minister of that country had made a deal with an old rival of the Mafia thought to have been extinct since the early part of the twentieth century. Camorra. This underground syndicate intended to use nuclear devices to decimate the ranks of the visiting crime lords, hoping to assume dominance of the world's crime scene.

Remo and Chiun had thwarted their plans, and the secret fraternity had scuttled back into the shadows. In the intervening months, Smith had been unable to locate them, and they had made no more noises of their desire to expand beyond Italy's borders. Until now.

"Is it possible?" Smith asked. He was still amazed that something like Camorra had evaded detection for so long.

"You tell me," Remo answered. "I've got a letter here from Italy. By the sounds of it, Scubisci was getting stuff sent to his mother and his lawyer was bringing it to him."

"Bring the letter to Folcroft," Smith said crisply.

"I was gonna FedEx it," Remo said. "And anyway, Chiun says it's just some kind of congratulations thing. It might not be anything."

"I will not know that until I see it."

"C'mon, Smitty. Chiun's itching to go after the guys who torched our house. Besides, the note's in Italian. You don't know Italian."

"Actually, I do know some," Smith said. "And Master Chiun will be able to fill the gaps in my knowledge. As for the men responsible for burning your home, I have had no luck. There have been no credit-card usages by Fungillo since yesterday. Aside from a large cash withdrawal in his name from a Boston ATM a few hours after you saw him flee the scene, he has disappeared. At least electronically."

Beside Remo, the Master of Sinanju's face grew dark. "You confessed to Smith before me?" he hissed.

When Remo offered a sheepish shrug in explanation, the old man exhaled disgust. He marched away from his pupil and took up a sentry position at the main doors, glaring malevolence at Mott Street. The activity outside had grown since their arrival at the retirement complex.

"I don't know about Raffair," Remo muttered, "but my stock's dropping like a rock." He tore his eyes away from his teacher's indignant form. "Why don't you let us go after Scubisci right now?" he whispered to Smith. "For my sake? After all, as top dog he's ultimately to blame for what happened to our house. Maybe that'll get Chiun off my back."

"It will not," the Master of Sinanju called. "I want he who struck the match, not he who holds the leash."

As Remo felt himself deflate, Smith chimed in. "This time, I agree with Chiun," the CURE director said. "No one will miss a hoodlum like John Fungillo, but I would prefer not to send you into a federal penitentiary after Anseimo Scubisci."

"You've done it before," Remo said glumly. "And I still think he's the one behind these screwy attacks on me, no matter what you or his lawyer says."

"Sweet had no knowledge of the masked men?"

"No," Remo admitted. "But don't think Raffair's off the hook. It could be the guy above Scubisci who's behind it."

"Doubtful," Smith said. "If there is another figure lurking in the shadows, he would be far above the men you've met so far. I find it impossible to believe that he would be informed enough to direct these assaults against you. The first one in New York happened much too quickly."

"Maybe," Remo said grudgingly. "But we can find out for sure from Scubisci."

"No," Smith said. "When I've sent you on assignment into prisons in the past, the circumstances were different. Anselmo Scubisci alive in prison is a valuable weapon against those who might choose a life of crime. He shows that the system is working. Dead, he is not a deterrent."

"Yeah, but he'd be out of business," Remo grumbled. "Which, by the looks of it, he isn't now."

"We will see. Please bring the letter to Folcroft at once."

Remo was already hanging up when Smith broke the connection. He found the Master of Sinanju at the door.

"You heard," he sighed. "Smitty wants us back home." He cringed the moment the word passed his lips.

Chiun gave him a baleful look. "Sorry," Remo said, his voice small.

"Yes, you are," Chiun agreed icily. With one leathery hand, he slapped open the door.

Remo followed him outside, shamefaced.

This time when they hit the street, the air was filled with a pall of thin black smoke. Fire trucks and police cars were visible far down the road. The Neighborhood Improvement Association building was fully ablaze. The money Remo had thrown out into the street had slowed the arrival of emergency vehicles considerably. He felt little satisfaction in the act of vengeance as he stepped down onto the sidewalk.

His loafer soles had barely brushed the concrete when he heard the squeal of tires. He looked up in time to see an old Buick racing toward him from across the street, twin clouds of rubber-scented smoke pouring from its screeching back wheels. As the car approached, he saw the by-now familiar black ski mask behind the wheel.

"Oh, not again," Remo groused.

Gawkers watching the fire had to jump away from the speeding car's grille. The car rammed aside a parked minivan on its way toward Remo. Bouncing the curb, it plowed over a fireplug. Water gushed high into the air. When the car was nearly upon them, Remo jumped to the right while the Master of Sinanju jumped to the left in a billow of kimono skirts.

The car screamed past them and slammed smack into the broad steps of the Mott Street Community Home in an explosive burst of crumpling metal and smashing windshield.

"And I am tired of your friends, as well," Chiun snapped across the shattered hood as the engine idled to silence.

Shooting him an exasperated look, Remo leaned into the driver's-side window.

"Well it's about damn time," he announced. Tearing off the door, he ducked inside. When he emerged a moment later, he was holding the driver by the collar of his jacket. The man's head hung limp in his ski mask, chin brushing his chest. Unlike those who had preceded him, this attacker was still breathing.

"We've got a heartbeat," Remo proclaimed. The geysering fire hydrant had dropped the water pressure all along the line. Farther up Mott Street, the gushing fire hoses that had been dousing the raging flames at the Neighborhood Improvement Association had become pathetic spurting trickles. Eyes were already scanning the area for the reason.

"Let's get this one back to Smith," Remo said rapidly.

Carting the unconscious assailant under one arm like a trophy, he and the Master of Sinanju hurried down the street to Remo's leased car.

Chapter 24

It was raining in Naples.

Ominous black clouds rolled in across denuded vineyards. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

Don Hector Vincenzo watched the fat rivulets of rain as they streaked down the glass of his closed patio doors.

The air had turned cold. The stone floor beneath his shoes chilled him up to his ankles.

Although he was Don of the Naples Camorra, the most powerful of all the Camorristas, he did not control the weather. In the dark center of his soul, though he would admit it to no one, he knew that there was precious little that he did control.

But that was about to change.

He eyed a single raindrop as it rolled down the length of a door pane. It seemed to take forever to reach the floor. As he watched, his mind drifted beyond the storm clouds, beyond Naples. To America.

It was all going according to plan. It would take some time-a few more years, perhaps-but in the end, he would succeed. Finally.

They had been second to the Mafia far too long.

It had not always been that way. There was a time when the Naples Camorra and the Sicilian Mafia had been equals. But that was before Mussolini.

It was not that Il Duce favored the Mafia over Camorra. Indeed, the dictator had labored to destroy both groups. But Sicily was an island, separate and safe. On the mainland of Italy, Camorra had had the misfortune of being too close.

Those had been brutal times.

Even so, the shadow organization had survived. Not as powerful as it had been, but alive. Unfortunately, Camorra could never again hope to compete with La Cosa Nostra.

While Camorra was still licking its wounds in the time immediately following World War II, the Mafia had thrived. The Americans had relied on the Mafia to help in the relief efforts. The Dons helped keep the social fabric from tearing while solidifying their own power. Weakened, Camorra could only watch it happen.

America herself had been Camorra's great mistake. The Naples syndicate had failed to expand into this virgin territory. And so, crippled by war and impoverished in peace, Camorra had struggled for decades.

No longer.

Don Vincenzo wasn't a young man. As his days on Earth dwindled, so too had his patience. Before his time ran out, he had vowed to see Camorra return to the greatness of old.

The grand scheme in East Africa had been part of the strategy. To this day, he still didn't know why that had failed. As it was, he had been lucky to escape that backward land with his life.

But this was his second chance. At his age, perhaps his final chance. Originally, he had planned it to be his introduction to the American market. However, with the Mafia still present there, it had been an easy enough thing to turn it into a weapon of attack.

Things were not as they once had been for his enemy. The Mafia had grown big and clumsy. The dawning of the new millennium had witnessed a weakened Cosa Nostra. And in that weakness was opportunity....

Lightning crackled suddenly through the black sky, startling Don Vincenzo. When he looked out at the clouds, he saw that a fissure had appeared in the gloomy canopy. Shafts of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating his hillside vineyard. The fat splattering raindrops that had been striking the patio tabletops and chairs began to die.

The clouds moved once more, and the sunlight vanished. But the rain near the house continued to slow.

It would stop soon. Then the sky would clear. Perhaps the day would be warm.

Don Vincenzo pulled himself to his feet. Someone would have to be found to dry off his chair outside.

The old Don shambled off into the mansion in search of a servant and a rag.

Chapter 25

Smith heard the soft sound of an engine running as he was reading the initial accounts of the fire at the Neighborhood Improvement Association in Manhattan. The sound came from the loading-dock area behind Folcroft.

Since it was too late for the regularly scheduled morning deliveries, Smith leaned over to the picture window. When he saw Remo and Chiun standing next to Remo's car, the CURE director's already displeased expression grew more sour.

Remo held up a finger, telling Smith to wait a minute. He shut off the engine, and he and Chiun disappeared from sight. Thirty seconds later, they were gliding into Smith's office.

"You did not tell me you burned down Scubisci's headquarters," Smith said unhappily as they closed the door.

"Tit for tat," Remo said levelly. He shook his head. "And that doesn't matter right now." He offered a thin smile. "Guess who's in the car?"

Smith frowned. He had seen no one in Remo's vehicle. "Who?" Smith asked warily. He leaned back again, craning to see the car near the loading dock.

"I don't know," Remo said. "And you can't see him 'cause he's in the trunk. But he is the first survivor of one of these boohawdle kamikaze attacks against me."

This finally piqued the CURE director's interest. The three men left the office and hurried downstairs. Remo snagged an empty gurney from the hallway and rolled it with them outside.

"He's out like a light," Remo said as he popped the trunk.

Smith removed the white button that was pinned to the man's jacket. "I have still had no luck with this," he said.

Remo had pulled off the man's ski mask. His hair was light, his skin dark. Dried blood formed a crusted patch where his forehead had met the steering wheel.

When Smith reached for the man's pockets, Remo stopped him. "Don't bother," he said. "I already checked. No ID."

"Let's get him inside," Smith said, his brow furrowed.

Remo dumped the unconscious man onto the gurney and wheeled him in through the loading-dock door.

Smith left the patient in the care of a Folcroft doctor in the security wing of the sanitarium with an order to call upstairs the instant the man came to.

Ten minutes later, they were back in Smith's office.

"Now, let me see the letter," Smith said as he locked the door.

Remo started reaching for his pocket, but the Master of Sinanju interrupted. "First things first," he said, staying Remo with a bony hand to his pupil's wrist. From the folds of his kimono, he produced the yellow paper on which Sol Sweet had scribbled the names of the men who'd burned their home. "Find these three," he commanded.

Smith took the paper. The handwriting was appalling. Still, he recognized John Fungillo's name. "Presumably, these are the men who destroyed your home?" he asked, raising a thin eyebrow.

"It would be wise to first check those establishments that trade in guns and gardening supplies," Chiun suggested authoritatively. "When Romans are not shooting at one another, they are growing those suspicious pomato things that haven't the decency to be either a fruit or a vegetable."

"Yes," Smith nodded. "This should be checked first." Paper in hand, he crossed to his desk. Remo couldn't hide his surprise.

"I know you're not doing it out of the goodness of your heart," he said as the CURE director settled into his chair. "And vengeance isn't your style, so what gives?"

"Simple," Smith said. "The men who burned your home saw the two of you on tape and were in your home. Either case makes them a security threat."

"I should have known," Remo nodded.

"Your enemies are our enemies, O Emperor," Chiun bowed. Just in case the madman was lying to placate him, he stayed at Smith's side as the CURE director worked.

"Sweet had the only other tape of us, by the way," Remo said. "It's toast. Along with most of Little Italy if they haven't figured out how to get the water back on." He sank cross-legged to the carpet.

The CURE director had already engaged the basement mainframes in a continuous search for John Fungillo. He hoped that these two new names would help him locate the three arsonists. But after twenty futile minutes, he was forced to admit defeat.

"These men have left no electronic path to follow, either," Smith said once he was through. "Like Fungillo, they each withdrew a large amount of cash from an ATM in Boston after Remo saw them fleeing your home. Obviously, they wish to remain in hiding-at least for now." He entered some simple commands into his computer. "We will have to put them aside for now. I have instructed the mainframes to alert me the moment any of them show themselves."

The Master of Sinanju's weathered face showed his disappointment. "Very well, Emperor," he said.

Smith turned his attention to Remo. "Now, the letter, please."

Still sitting on the floor, Remo fished in his pocket and removed the note he'd retrieved from Angela Scubisci.

"Probably just a fried-zucchini recipe," he commented, winging it to Smith. The envelope slid to a stop above Smith's keyboard.

Chiun helped the CURE director translate. When they were done minutes later, a frustrated expression had formed on Smith's gaunt face.

"There is nothing here," he complained.

"As I said," Chiun sniffed. He was still at Smith's elbow. "Unsigned platitudes from one Roman to another."

"Well, it is written to an Anselmo," Smith offered. "We can safely conclude that this is Anselmo Scubisci, but there is nothing specific that would point to the writer." As he stared at his monitor, the neat rows of letters reflected in the lenses of his glasses.

"This Begorra thing has been in deep cover for years," Remo said. "Makes sense they wouldn't sign a letter to the biggest crime boss in America."

"If it is in fact Camorra," Smith said. He looked once more at the envelope. "According to this, it was postmarked in Naples. Perhaps I can use the records from East Africa. If there is a crime figure from Naples wealthy enough to back Raffair, it's possible he was present for the events there three months ago. Remo, Master Chiun, I believe you've taken this as far as you can. I will complete this investigation from here."

He had no sooner said the words when the dedicated White House line rang. It was clear from the look on his face that Smith didn't want to have to take the call.

"Let it ring, Smitty," Remo suggested. "He's gone day after tomorrow anyway."

But Smith had already pulled the red phone from the drawer. With a look of thin disapproval at Remo, he answered it. "Yes, sir," he said tiredly.

"Just checking on your progress, Smith," the President of the United States said, forced affability in his voice.

"We have learned how Raffair can be a company that does not actually produce anything," the CURE director said. He quickly briefed the President on what Remo and Chiun had learned from Sol Sweet. "So it seems as if those ordinary American citizens who are the primary stockholders of Raffair have invested in a group intent on unraveling the very fabric of our own society," he concluded.

Once he was done, the President whistled softly. "Dang if he didn't know something was buggy about them right from the start," he said, impressed.

"Who?" Smith asked.

The President caught himself. "Oh, no one," he said vaguely. "Just some guy. So anyway, who's behind all this?"

"Well, as far as we can ascertain at this juncture, it is none other than Don Anselmo Scubisci."

"The Dandy Don?" the President said, a quick flicker of anger in his tone. "I thought he was strapped for cash. At least that's what he claimed when I hit him up for a campaign donation back in '96."

"Scubisci has apparently found a backer in a foreign crime syndicate called Camorra," Smith explained. "It's an odd arrangement, given the fact that the Mafia and Camorra are historic enemies. I am still uncertain why a prominent Mob figure would get into bed with a sworn enemy."

"Caligula would have married his horse had his Praetorian guard not killed him on the way to the ceremony," Chiun sniffed from his sentry post next to Smith. He was leaning in to listen. "Tell the bloated puppet President that the Romans are not choosy about their bed partners."

"Neither is he," Remo chimed in from the floor. "I saw that pig-in-a-beret he wasn't having dictionary sex with."

Smith gave them a withering look.

"Were those your men?" the President asked. There was an odd strain to his hoarse voice Smith hadn't heard before.

"Yes, sir," the CURE director replied.

"Caligula wasn't gonna marry any horse," Remo muttered at Chiun.

"It is called history," the old Korean said.

"It's called bullshit," Remo disagreed.

"It is only that when not said with authority," the Master of Sinanju retorted. "And I am not talking to you."

Smith slapped a firm hand over the mouthpiece. "Do you two mind?" he whispered hotly.

"So they're both okay?" the President asked. He seemed oblivious to what they'd said.

Smith's face grew puzzled. "They are fine," he replied.

"Good, good," the President said, suddenly seeming strangely distant. "Anyway, about this Raffair thing. If Anselmo Scubisci's behind it, I think they should be closed for good. I don't want people saying organized crime rode the coattails of my economy. Could you do me a great favor, Smith, and shut down those other offices around the country like you did in Boston?"

From the floor, Remo shook his head desperately while mouthing the word "no" repeatedly. Leaning a shell-like ear toward the phone, Chiun seemed supremely disinterested in the conversation he was eavesdropping on.

Smith closed his eyes on both of them. "Very well, Mr. President," he said.

"Great," the President enthused. "Gimme a call when you're through."

There was no dial tone when the dedicated line went dead. Smith replaced the phone in his bottom drawer.

"What's he want us to do next," Remo griped, "interview strippers for the first post-White House orgy? Count me out this time, Smitty."

"It did not seem an unreasonable request," Smith said.

"It does to me," Remo retorted. "I thought we could hang around here at least until that guy downstairs comes to. And I'm a little bit anxious to pay a visit to the goon squad that torched our house." At this, Chiun harrumphed.

"And I've had it up to here with you, too," Remo snapped at him. "It was my house just as much as it was yours. You don't own the copyright on indignation this time, Little Father. And you sure as hell didn't get the promise from some ghost of a truckload of crap getting dumped on you for the next decade, so why don't you just back off?"

The flash of injured anger in his pupil's tone caught the old man off guard. The harsh lines of Chiun's face tightened for an instant before relaxing somewhat.

"I sympathize with you for your loss," Smith said reasonably. "And I'm just as interested as you in the identity of your masked assailants, but at the moment we are in a holding pattern for both. Right now, it might be best for us all if you kept busy. At least until something new comes up with either situation."

On the floor, Remo closed his eyes, forcing calm. "Why don't I just stick a broom up my ass so I can sweep the streets while I'm traipsing all over the country?"

"There isn't room," Chiun said, his eyes hooded. "For your head would get in the way. We will go, Emperor Smith," he told the CURE director. "If only to give you the solitude you need to find those Sinanju seeks."

"Thank you, Master Chiun," Smith nodded. "I will print out a list of Raffair's national offices." He focused his attention on his computer.

"Thanks a heap, Chiun," Remo complained quietly as the old Korean swept around the big desk.

"For once the lunatic is right," the tiny Asian said, his voice pitched low enough that only Remo could hear. "Retribution will come in its time. If this distraction satisfies Smith's need to placate the departing billhilly he serves, then we will serve our emperor in this task."

Remo didn't answer. Scowling deeply, he crossed his arms.

Chiun said nothing more. As Smith worked, the aged Korean sank to the floor next to his pupil. He offered but one more glance at Remo. When he saw that the look of brooding had not yet fled, a new expression formed on the older man's weathered face. With an air of sad understanding, Chiun focused all his attention back on his mad employer.

THE PRESIDENT SAT On the edge of the bed. At his feet was the red phone used to contact Smith. The nightstand in which the telephone was supposed to be secreted had vanished the previous day.

With a heavy sigh, he dragged himself to his feet. The living room was empty as he trudged by. He had no idea how she'd managed that. It was as if all the furniture had been swallowed up by a black hole while he'd slept.

There were a few half-chewed photographs on the floor. On the scraps he saw his own thoughtful puffy eyes, earnest protruding chin and thoughtful bitten lip.

At least he didn't have to run from the First Menagerie anymore. The dog and the cat were in exile, locked across the street at Blair House. It was one of his last official acts as President. Probably ever. Thanks to her, he might never get the third term he so desperately wanted.

Past the living room, he entered the small study. The boxes containing billing records and personal files were gone, as were all the shredders. Relocated to New York.

He found a phone that his wife hadn't taken and stabbed out the number by memory.

"iHola!" said the female voice that answered.

"It's me," the President said glumly.

The woman's voice grew cold. "Oh. Ju hab news?"

Her Spanish accent was awkward. In the background, the same man's voice that the President had been hearing for more than a year continued to drone Spanish in soft, modulated tones.

"They're on their way," the President said. "I don't know which office they'll hit first, if that makes a difference to you, but they're goin' after them all."

"Eet duz not," the woman replied. "We will be ready for them. They stand in the way of my ascension to the throne and must therefore be crushed by my royal guard."

"Yeah," the President grumbled. "If that's all you need, I've got some stuff I've gotta do."

At this, the woman laughed. "For ju there is no more work. Ju are, as my people say, El Lamo Ducko."

He was pretty sure this wasn't real Spanish. He didn't have time to speak before the woman-still laughing that groin-injuring laugh of hers-slammed the phone in his ear.

He dropped his own receiver to its cradle. Since the coffee table had vanished, this phone was on the floor, too.

"New Year's resolution number one," the President muttered to himself. "I gona start bein' more picky about who I sleep with."

Chapter 26

Don Anselmo Scubisci felt the faint kiss of fear as he carefully pressed out the eleven-digit number. He'd used the redial button the first twenty times, but the last five he had entered the number manually, each time thinking he'd misdialed the previous times.

All the lines into the Neighborhood Improvement Association were busy, including Sol Sweet's private line. Something was wrong.

Other men were waiting to use the prison phone. Not that it mattered. For the head of the Manhattan Mafia, they'd wait.

When he finished dialing the twenty-fifth time, the familiar buzzing assaulted his ears.

He slammed down the phone.

Scubisci fished out the coin from the return slot and shoved it back in the phone. He quickly stabbed out a different number. After hearing nothing but the relentless staccato buzz of a busy signal, it was jarring when the phone started ringing at the other end.

As he waited anxiously for someone to pick up, he drummed his fingers impatiently against the graffiti-covered wall. His nails were shabby. It had been some time since he'd had a decent manicure.

The phone was answered on the ninth ring. "Mott Street Community Home," a woman's nasal voice announced.

"Angela Scubisci," Anselmo barked. The frantic sharpness in his voice stung his throat, reminding him of the too-recent brush with cancer and the nodes that had been removed from his vocal cords.

There were no phones in the nursing-home rooms. Standing at the prison phone, he prayed they'd wheel his mother into the hallway fast. After fifteen minutes, the prison phone would automatically hang up.

After nearly eight agonizing minutes, the familiar angry old voice came onto the line.

"Who's this?" Angela Scubisci demanded. Though he hadn't seen her since he'd been sent to prison nearly two years ago, he could still picture the withered old crow. Her scowling, toothless face haunted him in his dreams.

"It's Anselmo, Mama."

"You still alive?" She sounded disappointed.

"Of course I'm alive, Mama," Anselmo said. For an instant, he felt sorry for her. Such tragedy had been visited on her in recent years she had to have thought her elder son dead, as well. "I'm in jail, remember?"

"I know where you are," his mother snarled. "This notta the crazy house you lock me in."

"Then why'd you think I was dead?"

"'Cause they killa you Jew lawyer. You should see, Anselmo. Ambulance and police all over the road. I see fromma the window. It look like the day you poor sainted father pass on, God rest hissa soul."

At the mention of her dead husband, she sobbed a few obligatory times. Anselmo Scubisci hardly heard her. His mind was reeling.

"How do you know Sol's dead?" he croaked.

"They tella me."

"Maybe they were wrong. Who told you?"

"The men who killa your kike. One was a nice young man. The other I don't know. Some Chinaman or something."

Panic. Sweet had told him about the men who had visited the Boston Raffair office.

"They were there? What did you tell them?"

"Just the truth. Thatta you a no-good son. Thatta you insult the memory offa you father by lying down with them Napoli fritto di pesce."

He couldn't wrap his brain around all this. Don Anselmo had to lean against the grimy prison wall for support.

"You didn't tell them that?" he gasped.

"About you new friends, Anselmo? Is that whatta you worried about?" She suddenly spoke in soothing, almost motherly tones.

She'd been joking. Anselmo felt a wash of relief flow over his thin frame.

The grating harpy's voice flashed angry. "Of course I tella them, you no-good Judas. I give them one of you letters from the Naples scum. They gonna come for you for whatta you done to your poor dead father's memory. They gonna come to that prison and they gonna cut that black heart outta you body. They gonna killa you, Anselmo. They gonna-"

Don Scubisci hung up the phone.

His mother's words echoed in his brain. He stood near the pay phone for a long time, his ears ringing madly.

They gonna come for you.

Who was going to come? Could they possibly get to him? In prison? Wasn't he safe in here, of all places?

He tried to focus his thoughts even as he attempted to dispel the image Sweet had painted of Louis DiGrotti's decapitation at the hands of the old one.

"You finished with that?" a voice rumbled. Anselmo looked numbly to his left.

A man nearby. Large. Pointing at the phone. "Yes. Yes, I am. Sorry."

Don Anselmo stepped woodenly aside.

No. Whoever they were, they wouldn't be able to get in here. Ogdenburg was a fortress. He'd be safe. Still, he had to make plans. Just in case.

Anselmo reached for the phone. He was startled to find someone already there. He had no idea how the huge man had gotten past him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Don Anselmo snarled. "Get off that phone."

The man hesitated for a moment. He was a hulking thing with rippling muscles. He could have broken Anselmo Scubisci's neck with a snap of his huge fingers.

It seemed as if he were actually considering disobeying the Manhattan Don. But the moment quickly passed. Scowling, he replaced the phone and skulked away.

Scubisci scooped up the receiver.

Sol might be gone, but there were still people on the outside he could call. He didn't trust his mother. The old bat was crazy. He'd find out what was going on first.

Then he'd start worrying.

THE SHADES Of his Maryland apartment were tightly drawn. Mark Howard sat in the corner of his living room in front of his glowing PC screen.

He'd been on-line ever since he'd called in sick that morning.

The Boston Raffair office was closed. Two bodies had been discovered there. With the counterfeiter Petito, that made a total of three in Massachusetts. The New York headquarters had burned to the ground a few hours before.

Things were happening. Thanks to him.

Mark knew he was the reason for all this. Why was still unclear, but thanks to the data he'd sent along to the White House, the blood of the dead was on his hands.

Mark's night had been a sleepless one. The dreams of death were vivid. All the premonitions, insights and instincts of a lifetime seemed to be clicking into place.

There was a puzzle in himself. Something that he now realized he'd always known about but had pushed aside. His life was larger than he understood.

It was odd that this sense should strike him now. The mere knowledge that there was some secret force prowling across America automatically made him a security risk to that force. It was as if he were beginning to understand something important about himself at the same time that his life was at most risk.

But the picture was only half-formed. He couldn't bear the thought that he might never know who he truly was or what he was destined to become. Yet the same unseen thing that threatened him-Smith and his agents-was the thing that had brought him to this crossroads.

Fear, adrenaline, a risk to his very life. All combined were firing synapses in a brain that now seemed to have been dormant for the past twenty-nine years.

The mug that sat next to his mousepad was full. He'd poured the coffee hours ago, thinking he'd need the caffeine after so little sleep. He hadn't drunk a sip.

Mark was searching the news Web sites. Every once in a while, he'd do a keyword search for "Raffair," as well as a few other buzzwords like "crime," "bodies," "dead" and "Mafia." For some reason, early on his fingers had gone on automatic and typed the word "destroyer." Mark didn't know why, yet the feeling told him it was right. He left it in the search.

Nothing had happened since Raffair's world headquarters in New York was burned down. The past several hours had been chillingly quiet.

He ordinarily would have felt cramped or fatigued sitting so long at his computer, but for some reason he wasn't feeling any discomfort this day. It was as if he were born to sit in a chair and stare at a monitor. Even his eyes were alert. All this was good for Mark, for he dared not leave his computer for a minute.

Studying the screen, he used his mouse to highlight a news article from the online Boston Blade. A blaze in Quincy had destroyed a condominium complex. Although the building had been occupied, the tenants had vanished. It was being said that the two men who lived there had to have been squatters, for there was no record of ownership. It was apparently a surprise to city officials that the place was abandoned property.

A boring little item, and Mark had no idea why it should interest him. Yet he found himself clicking and saving it to his hard drive.

As he did so, a muted electronic beep issued from his computer. His mailbox popped open.

He'd subscribed to a couple of news services earlier in the day, so he quickly clicked on the mailbox icon.

One of the services had flagged a report out of Chicago. When he read the simple lines of text, his mouth went dry.

There had been another multiple homicide at a Raffair office, this one on East Sixteenth and Clark in Chicago.

Mark read this latest report with a growing combination of dread and disbelief.

According to the Chicago police report, four men were confirmed dead. In a surrealistic twist, one of them appeared to have been fed through an office paper shredder. Police theorized that it had taken the killers hours to perform this gruesome act, and that some special massive crushing implement had to have been employed first to flatten the body. Yet there were no marks from such a tool on the floor and no evidence of the residue that the crushed body would have made.

Alone in his apartment, Mark closed his eyes. Bodies were piling up all around the country, and they could all be traced to one source. Mark Howard.

He took a steeling breath. Opening his eyes, he attacked his keyboard. Fingers typing rapidly, he called up the list of Raffair offices and staff around the country. The same list he'd given the President. He looked down at the first electronic page.

Boston, New York and Chicago were gone. They weren't taking them out alphabetically. Geography was dictating their path. L.A. would most likely be last. It sat alone on the West Coast. That left only a handful of others.

Mark scanned the list, much shorter now than it had been twenty-four hours ago.

New Orleans and Miami. They'd pick off the Houston office on their way west.

Howard took several minutes to commit the remaining addresses to memory. When he was through, he deleted all files concerning Raffair from his system.

Shutting down his computer, Mark stood. No pain in his back or legs. No pain at all.

In his last days in office, the President had exposed Mark to something deeply dangerous. He could either hide and hope it all blew over or confront whatever mystery force was out there.

Fear told him to stay put, but the feeling told him to go. His subconscious had invaded his conscious mind and it was screaming one word to him, over and over and over again.

Destiny.

He'd get his plane tickets at the airport. Pulling open his top desk drawer, Mark took out something he'd bought after joining the CIA. Something he thought he'd never use.

Mark turned from the desk.

His overnight bag was in the hall closet. Gun clutched tightly in his hand, he went to collect it.

Chapter 27

The Master of Sinanju had said next to nothing on the flight from New York to Chicago. He'd remained reticent as he and Remo dismantled Chicago's Raffair office, as well as its occupants. When they settled into their seats on the 727 out of Chicago-O'Hare, it didn't appear as if the old man had any intention of breaking his silence.

Chiun's hazel eyes were turned away from his pupil, set firmly on the plane's left wing, lest it have the audacity to drop off during takeoff with him aboard. Only once they were at a safe cruising altitude did he turn his attention inside. Still, he said not a word.

Remo wouldn't be goaded. If the old crank was giving him the silent treatment, he'd give it right back to him. No, siree, not a peep. Two could play at that game. He'd keep his mouth shut for ten damn years if he had to. He would absolutely not be the first one to snap. No way in hell-his lips were sealed, locked and the key had been tossed out the pressurized door at thirty-five thousand feet.

He folded his arms firmly across his chest and screwed his lips shut tight. Beside him, Chiun was oblivious to his decision. The old man remained lost in private thoughts.

Remo decided it was no good giving someone the silent treatment unless they knew they were being given the silent treatment.

"I'm not talking to you, either," he announced without turning his head.

Chiun didn't reply.

There was a sudden raucous sound from the rear of the plane. Someone had smuggled on a boom box. They'd just started playing a CD with a heavy Latin beat. A group of rowdy passengers cheered the sound.

"Just so you know," Remo continued. "I don't think I deserve it from you, 'cause I'm going through exactly what you're going through, and it's not my fault about our house no matter what you think, and I really don't think it's fair that you're taking it out on me. So if you're not talking to me, I'm not talking to you. How do you like them apples?" He hugged his arms further into himself.

In the back, the revelry had become more focused. The cheering turned to singing and clapping. A conga line danced up the aisle next to Remo, led by the copilot. The man's uniform shirt was open to his navel, revealing hairy chest and belly. His head and arms swayed with the music as he danced by, a group of college-age girls attached hands to hips behind him.

"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 Johnny 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.

The patient was strapped to his bed. Smith had told the nursing staff that his injuries were self-inflicted and that he might do more harm to himself if restraints were not used.

The doctor stood above the man who had tried to run over Remo on Mott Street. He had removed the dressing and was examining the stitches on his patient's forehead.

"Thank you, Doctor," Smith said crisply as he entered the room. "I would like to see the patient in private now."

"Oh, Dr. Smith," the physician said, looking up. "Your patient's doing fine. As you can see, he's awake. A little groggy, but that's to be expected after a fall like this."

The man on the bed seemed disoriented. Dark eyes darted back and forth fearfully as he tried to understand where he was. He muttered a soft string of words. Smith was surprised they were not in English.

"He's been talking ever since he woke up," Dr. Edgerton said. There was a concerned look on his flabby face.

Smith's eyes darted to the middle-aged doctor. "Do you know what he's saying?" he asked, his voice perfectly level.

"Me?" the doctor said. "No. Took French, not whatever he's speaking. Oh, and some Latin, obviously," he added with a chuckle. "Dr. Smith, I don't think you have to worry about letting staff in here. I know what you said, but I doubt he's contagious. Just a bad bump on the head from that fall you said he took. That's all, as far as I can tell."

Smith didn't even hear the last of what the doctor was saying. He was just relieved that the man in bed didn't speak French. Had he, he would have just cost a Folcroft doctor his life.

"Thank you, Dr. Edgerton," Smith said authoritatively. "That will be all."

The doctor hid his agitation at the Folcroft director's tone. Draping his stethoscope around his neck, he left the room. Smith closed the door behind him and immediately dragged a chair over close to the bed.

The patient's eyes rolled in Smith's direction as the older man sat down. He continued to mumble in soft, rolling tones. Smith had to tip an ear to his mouth in order to make out what he was saying.

It was clear now what language he was speaking. Yet other than a few words here and there, it was one Smith did not understand.

"Who sent you?" Smith asked, hoping the patient understood English.

But the injured man continued to mutter in his foreign tongue. His hands clasped and unclasped weakly below his wrist straps.

Lips pursing unhappily, Smith stood. He would have to wait for Remo and Chiun to return. The Master of Sinanju would be able to translate.

He was heading for the door, ready to give the on-duty staff strict orders not to enter this room under any circumstances, when he heard a new word from behind him.

This was said louder than the rest, and was uttered with naked fear.

Hearing the word, Smith turned slowly back.

What little color he possessed drained from his gray face like sand from an hourglass.

The man was pulling at his wrist straps, still mumbling the same word over and over. Each time he said it, he seemed to grow more afraid.

Shaken, Smith quickly exited the room. He found a copy of Westchester County's Journal News at a nursing station beyond the locked doors of the security wing. On the front page was a story he had read that morning before coming to work. Ignoring the glances of curious staff, he returned to the empty security corridor. The man was still tugging at his wrist straps when Smith reentered the room.

"Is this what you are referring to?" he demanded. He held a front-page photograph up to the patient's nose.

When the man saw the picture, his eyes grew wide. He began spouting a stream of terrified words, none of which-beyond the one he'd noted earlier-Smith recognized. Not that it mattered. The CURE director now understood exactly what the man feared. As well as who was behind the unsuccessful attacks against Remo.

As the man cowered from the newspaper, Smith flipped it around, examining the black-and-white picture.

It was something that had been of great interest both in Westchester County and nationally for more than a year now.

The above-the-fold picture showed a house with a high fence. Superimposed over it in one corner was a large photo of a man and woman. They had been moving into the home for what seemed like forever. In just two more days, it would become official.

Smith tucked the paper sharply under his arm. As the patient continued to babble the chillingly familiar woman's name, the CURE director walked briskly from the room.

REMO HAD TO SKIP to one side to avoid slipping on the brains that were spread like a gray oatmeal paste on the floor of the New Orleans Raffair office.

The Master of Sinanju's hands were slapped firmly on either side of Tommy Rovigo's head. The pressure he'd exerted had forced the man's brain up through his balding pate like a spitwad through a straw.

With fussing fingers, he tossed the gangster away. Tommy Guns thudded to the floor, an angry red cavity where his gray matter had been.

"Call your shots, Little Father," Remo said, irritated. He danced across a cerebellum minefield, loafers searching out a clean spot.

Chiun wasn't listening. He was moving away from Remo, sweeping like a kimono-clad typhoon toward Fondi Bisol.

"Don't shred me!" Fondi shrieked in terror. He flung his gun away and threw up his hands.

As Fondi cowered in fear, Remo felt another gun zero in on his back.

"Oh, great," he groused. "A shoeful of brains, and now we're gonna get shot at again. Told you we should've come in the back," he called after Chiun.

"If you are just going to stand there and complain, you may wait in the car," the tiny Asian retorted.

Remo opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he was going to say was lost in an explosion of gunpowder.

Twirling on one heel, he dodged the bullet that had just been fired at his back. In a heartbeat, he was face-to-face with a very startled Angelo Tanaro.

"I mean, it's not like you get treated any better when you come in the front. Am I right?" Remo demanded.

Tanaro seemed stunned that the bullet hadn't found its mark. This time, when he aimed at Remo, he held the trigger down.

Remo danced around the hail of lead. Pockmarks erupted in the wall behind him.

"See?" Remo insisted. "It ain't all champagne and peeled grapes with the front. We're always getting shot at. But does he ever listen to me? No."

Behind him, he heard Chiun's gangster scream. Before him, Tanaro was trying to track him with his gun.

He fired left; Remo moved right. He fired right; Remo twirled left. He fired right again; Remo vanished.

"Missed me," a voice said very close to Angelo Tanaro's ear.

When he turned, he found he was looking into the coldest eyes he'd ever seen.

"Say good-night, Guido," Remo said.

Pivoting on the ball of one foot, he sent a pointed toe into Angelo's throat. There was a pinch of pain at the mobster's Adam's apple. It was followed by the most horrible sucking sound Angelo had ever heard.

When Remo's foot swung away, it was trailed by Angelo Tanaro's esophagus. Ghastly and elongated, it splattered against the office wall like a slippery red snake.

The gangster fell to his knees, clutching the dimesize hole in his throat. Remo finished him off with a pulverizing heel to the forehead.

"There," Remo announced, spinning to the Master of Sinanju. "No mess to slip on. Nice and neat."

"Stop your childish prattling," Chiun insisted from across the room. He sounded distracted.

When Remo saw what his teacher was up to, he rolled his eyes. "Oh, not again," he exhaled. There was a large paper shredder in the corner of the office. The Master of Sinanju stood beside it, a puzzled expression on his face. As he studied the device, he stroked his thread of beard thoughtfully. Kneeling on the floor at his feet was Fondi Bisol. The gangster's hands had been crushed flat and stuffed into the paper slot.

"God, please, no," Fondi wept.

"Can we speed this up, Little Father?" Remo complained, coming up beside the old man.

"I cannot find the On switch," Chiun frowned.

"It's broke," Fondi blubbered. Tears rolled down his dark cheeks.

"You stay out of this," Remo warned. "Chiun, let's go."

A deeply displeased expression took root on the Master of Sinanju's wrinkled face. His scowling eyes darted to the four corners of the room. They lingered for a moment on the idle coffeemaker before he shook his aged head.

"Pah!" the old Korean snapped.

His hands became vengeful blurs. Daggerlike nails hummed through muscle and bone. A final scream from Fondi Bisol died to a croak in his throat.

When Chiun stepped away from the body a moment later, Fondi lay in tattered strips on the floor. His severed arms hung slack from the mouth of the paper shredder.

"And the fates conspire to rob yet another spark of pleasure from a kindly old man's life," Chiun said, glowering at the remains.

Remo nodded agreement. "Let's get going," he said. "We've still got miles to go before we sleep." Chiun didn't argue. Leaving the bodies where they lay, the two men slipped from the office and out into the mild New Orleans night.

Chapter 30

"When did they hit New Orleans?"

"Coupla hours ago, Don Anselmo. Took out everybody. It was a big mess, what I hear." Anselmo Scubisci couldn't even remember who was in New Orleans. He thought maybe Tommy Guns was there.

Not that it mattered. Whoever was there was dead. Four offices had been hit so far, all around the country. There were only three left.

In more optimistic times, Don Scubisci would have considered the remaining Raffair offices to be three more chances to stop the enemies who were out to destroy him. But hope had fled when he heard what happened in Chicago.

According to his mother, the men who were doing all this were coming after him. For now, his greatest hope was that they'd continue jumping from state to state. The longer they spent going after the individual Raffair offices, the more time they gave him.

"I talked to Skins Moletti just like youse asked, Don Anselmo, sir," said the deeply reverent voice on the phone.

Holy Pauli Pavulla still sounded awed to be speaking personally to the legendary Manhattan Don.

The first phone call the day before had stunned him. Pauli had been pretty much shunned by everyone else in the Scubisci Family ever since the Miracle of the Cheerios. He thought they'd only come around once he heard back from the Vatican. But then, whammo! From out of the blue, a call from Don Anselmo Scubisci himself.

Such an important event was this in Pauli Pavulla's life that the letters and photographs he'd sent off to St. Peter's months ago were forgotten. After all, the Pope was all well and good, but Don Scubisci was the capo of them all. Pauli might be called crazy as much as he was holy, but even he knew which ring to kiss first.

"You tell Skins to get moving faster," the Don ordered. The more nervous he got, the more he rasped. "The way they're moving, there's not much time left."

"Sure thing, Don Anselmo. He says he can be ready for eleven tomorrow morning."

"Six," Don Anselmo insisted.

"Uh, Skins says there's a lot to do," Holy Pauli said.

"Tell him to get it done!" Don Scubisci snapped. His angry words echoed through the dark prison. Somewhere distant, a sleepy voice yelled for quiet. Don Scubisci huddled farther into the phone. He had bribed a guard for these phone privileges. Of all times, he didn't want to have them revoked now. "What did he think all that money was for?" Anselmo whispered sharply. "For this. Now you tell him to get it done, or I swear on my mother's eyes it'll be the last thing he doesn't do."

Holy Pauli gulped. "I'll let him know, Don Anselmo," he vowed.

"And you don't stop off at church first, Pauli," Scubisci warned. "You call Skins as soon as you hang up from me. Six o'clock sharp. I don't care how it gets done. You screw up on this, you join Skins, capisce?"

"Yes, sir, Don Anselmo, sir," Pauli promised. "But don't worry so much. Ain't the Gabinetto brothers down in Miami?"

Don Scubisci thought of the four hulking Gabinettos. They were throwbacks to some early stage of man. At any other time, Don Anselmo Scubisci wouldn't have questioned the outcome of a contest involving the Gabinettos. Now he only hoped they lasted long enough to buy him the time he needed.

"I'll call back in an hour," he said, his voice flat.

"Don Anselmo?" Holy Pauli asked before the Mafia leader could hang up.

"What?"

"Youse want I should say a prayer for you, Don Anselmo?" Holy Pauli offered hopefully. Anselmo Scubisci pictured Pauli Pavulla kneeling at his kitchen table, a dozen flickering votive candles arranged around a bowl of curdled milk and Cap'n Crunch. Eyes already dead, he hung up the phone.

Chapter 31

General Rolando Rodriguez of the Movimiento de Izquierda Revolucionaria had parked his great People's Combat Wagon in front of the darkened Raffair office. The PCW was an '88 Ford station wagon he'd borrowed from his brother-in-law, Alberto, a Puerto Rican exile living here in Miami.

His nervous sweat fogged the car's windows. He was forced to clean away the dew periodically with a grimy T-shirt he'd found on the floor in the back.

After the disaster at MIR headquarters back in San Juan earlier in the week, Rodriguez had been bumped from corporal to general. It was a battlefield promotion he was afraid he'd never live to enjoy. After his multiple failures to eliminate the man who had decimated MIR's ranks, he had but one chance left to succeed. Otherwise, she would have her revenge against Rodriguez himself. The general suspected he'd only lasted this long because she was distracted by other matters these past few days.

Their numbers were far fewer now. The men from the first attacks in New York and Boston were dead. The later assault near Raffair headquarters on Mott Street had resulted in the first MIA soldier in the history of the revolutionary organization. After that soldier was gone, there weren't many left. Which was why the general himself had been forced to lead the last of his troops on this final campaign.

Rodriguez checked his watch. They should be in place by now. If the men he was after showed themselves here-and according to the information she had supplied, they would-the brave soldiers of MIR would be ready for them.

The window had fogged up again. Grabbing the torn Jennifer Lopez T-shirt, General Rodriguez wiped himself a squeaky tactical display field on the front windshield of Detroit's finest People's Combat Wagon.

"HE STILL THERE?" the gruff voice demanded.

"Yeah," said another from the shadows beside the office window. "He's wipin' off the window again."

Inside the Miami Raffair office, the three men were piled against the shadow-drenched wall. Thanks to Holy Pauli, they'd already gotten the word out of New Orleans. With another three Scubisci soldiers dead, the Gabinetto brothers were taking no chances.

The Gabinettos were hulking brutes with broad shoulders and massive fists. Unlike their fellow paisans, there were no nicknames for the four sons of Francesca Gabinetto. A distinctive sobriquet for any of them would have been redundant. To say "Gabinetto" was to say it all.

Their dark, looming shapes were throwbacks to some primordial time in Earth's history. In fact, many who met them thought the Gabinettos looked as if they'd be more comfortable splashing around a Cretaceous swamp. Even their normal mode of communication, which involved a great deal of shouting and hand waving, seemed to be from another age.

This night, the shouts were silenced, the hand gestures stilled. This night, their primitive silhouettes moved with silent purpose within the confines of the warm office.

They peered out the window at the dark shape that sat behind the wheel of the battered station wagon.

"You think he's waiting for this guy?" Emilio Gabinetto whispered. As he spoke, he nodded across the room.

A body lay on the floor near the open door to the rear storage room.

Mark Howard's hands had been tied clumsily behind his back. Dried blood darkened a spot on his light brown hair. His chest moved up and down rhythmically under his blue sweatshirt. He was unconscious, but alive.

"Don't matter," replied Fabio, the oldest of the Gabinetto brothers and therefore their leader. "I figured if that was the guy what's been whackin' everybody, we'd give him to Don Scubisci for a parole present. Now there's two of 'em, it's too complicated. We'll just kill 'em both."

"Shh!" hissed Jennio Gabinetto. He was still peering out through the miniblinds. "He's almost there."

The other two behemoths peeked outside.

A huge figure was sneaking up on the parked station wagon from behind. They watched in satisfaction as Mario, their youngest brother, crept up to the driver's door.

"We whack him, den dis guy, and maybe we can finally get outta here," Fabio grumbled. He jerked his head toward the sleeping man across the room.

Outside, their brother had reached the car door. A hand as big as a small snow shovel reached for the handle. With a wrench, he tore the door open, swinging up the gun he held in his other massive hand.

Through the picture window, the three waiting Gabinettos heard a muffled pop. Their brother was still standing at the car's open door as Fabio turned to the others.

"Okay, one of youse guys aerate him," he said, pointing to Mark Howard. "I'll get on the phone wit Holy Pauli and tell him it's done."

Fabio hadn't taken a single step toward the telephone when he heard a stunned gasp from one of his brothers. He twisted back to the window just in time to see the big shadow that had obscured the station wagon tumble over backward.

"Dey popped Mario!" Jennio Gabinetto said, shocked.

As he spoke, a figure emerged from the car. The man had pulled on a ski mask. As he stepped over the lifeless body of the youngest Gabinetto, they could see the rifle in the masked man's hands.

"Dammit!" Fabio growled. "Ma's gonna kill me."

The armed man was heading for the front of the office. Fabio was about to order his brothers to shoot through the window when he noticed another figure slip from the shadows behind the car. This one was followed by four-no, five more. All carried rifles braced against their chests. Each man wore a ski mask and jungle camouflage.

"I taut dese guys din't use guns," Emilio Gabinetto hissed even as he pulled his own weapon from his holster.

Fabio and Jennio already had guns in hand. "Shut up," Fabio whispered. He was staring at the door. He'd lost sight of the lead commandos seconds before.

When the shooting began an instant later, the suddenness startled the three crouching men.

Bullets chewed the wood around the doorknob. Even as the hot lead screamed into the office, a booted foot kicked the door open. A masked commando rolled into the room, rifle up and searching for targets.

Fabio laid him out with a single shot to the forehead. The dead man was falling to his knees as the next wave of soldiers leaped through the open door. The heavily armed men dove behind desks and chairs, all the while shooting at the Gabinettos. Returning fire, Fabio and his brothers took cover behind a row of filing cabinets.

More shooting echoed from the rear storeroom. Fabio heard the sound of another door being kicked in.

"Dere's more coming in the back!" he yelled. As he fired at the shadowy figures, Fabio suddenly thought they might be coming to collect the guy he and his brothers had knocked out. One thing was sure; if Fabio Gabinetto was going down, he'd make this was a hollow victory.

He swung his gun toward the back of the office, ready to plant a few rounds into the unconscious man.

His eyes went wide.

The guy was gone. The open storeroom door was only a few feet from where they'd dumped him. "Dammit!" Fabio growled. He smacked Jennio in the side of the head with his gun butt. "I told you we shoulda whacked that guy," he snarled. As Jennio rubbed his head with his free hand, Fabio turned his attention back to their attackers. With an angry scowl, he resumed firing at the mysterious masked men.

MARK HOWARD HAD COME around more than an hour earlier. Feigning unconsciousness, he'd watched the activity in the office through slivered eyes.

There didn't appear to be any way of escape. Though his bonds were loose, he couldn't very well wriggle out of them in full view of his captors. He'd lain quietly on the floor, his body cold from his own sweat, with no hope of survival.

His shocking salvation came when the door to the office was kicked open amid a barrage of bullets. The new arrivals quickly got into a gunfight with the men who'd grabbed him while he was skulking around the rear door of the Miami Raffair office. Mark seized his chance. Hands still tied behind his back, he had crawled desperately on toes and knees into the back room.

In seconds, Mark slithered out of his bonds and was upright, running for the rear exit. He had almost reached it when fresh gunfire erupted through it. As bullets pierced the steel door, Mark dove through an open doorway to his left. He landed roughly on the floor of a small office.

Mark was scampering to his feet just as the first gun muzzle appeared around the door frame. It moved in tentatively, like the sniffing nose of a curious animal.

He was cornered. The only door was the one he'd just come through. There were no windows. As his eyes darted around the room, Mark saw a familiar shape lying on a chair.

His heart knotted at the sight of his gun. He pounced on the weapon, tearing at the holster's Velcro straps.

His stalker in the hallway heard the sound. The man twisted around the corner just as Mark lifted his gun. With a look a fierce triumph, Mark squeezed the trigger.

It didn't budge.

He suddenly remembered he'd left on the safety. Problem was, it was so long since he'd bought the damn thing, he didn't remember where the safety switch was.

And as he twisted and shook the weapon in helpless frustration, the masked man who had just entered the small room raised his own gun, ready to fire.

Mark's eyes grew wide. He felt his breath catch as the rifle was aimed at his chest. The world slowed to a crawl, then stopped completely. Distorted sounds came in amplified waves to his suddenly acute ears.

Shouting from out front. Fresh shock above the roar of gunfire. Nearer, the rustle of fabric as the gunman raised his elbow. Hand shifting in slow motion, finger tensing on the rifle's trigger. To the right, a deafening explosion as the wail to the small office suddenly burst in.

For Mark, the world tripped back to normal time. In a hail of plaster dust, the upended body of Emilio Gabinetto soared through the wall. Before the gunman could fire, the flying Gabinetto had slammed into him with the force of a speeding freight train.

Scooping up the masked man bodily, Emilio continued on. The two men were crushed into a pile of indistinguishable arms and legs against the cinderblock wall of the building. With a sigh of collapsed lungs, the big bundle of knotted flesh dropped to the floor.

Mark stared at them in shock.

Through the hole in the wall, he could hear the sounds of confused shouting. Men yelled in English and Spanish.

A persistent noise like that of snapping kindling rose to his ears. Somehow, Mark instinctively knew he was listening to the sound of snapping bones.

In spite of the fear he felt, Mark peeked through the jagged opening Emiiio Gabinetto had formed. He saw a flash of something small and red flying toward a cowering Jennio Gabinetto. Before the gangster could shoot, the red dervish was upon him. The instant the blur resolved into the shape of a tiny, kimono-clad man, Jennio became airborne. Mark's eyes hadn't yet understood what they'd just seen when the warning burst like a solar flare in his brain.

He threw himself to his belly an instant before Jennio Gabinetto soared through the hole his brother had formed.

The body pounded against the wall and bounced off, collapsing lifeless on the prone form of Mark Howard.

Mark felt the air rush out of him as the mound of dead flesh settled on his back. He struggled to pull air back in his lungs. He was trying to wiggle out from under the huge body when he heard an angry hiss of Spanish nearby.

Twisting his head, Mark saw that another commando had entered the room from the back door. Even as the firefight was dying in the front office, the man strode toward the CIA analyst.

Mark had dropped his gun in the fall. He made a frantic grab for it even as he squirmed under the body.

His fingertips had barely brushed the gun butt when the hard crush of a boot heel stomped on his wrist. He felt the sharp sting of snapping bone.

The commando swung his rifle barrel at Mark's exposed head. And in that instant before finger brushed trigger, Mark heard a shocked gasp.

"Remo, cover your eyes!" cried a squeaky voice. From his ankle-view of the world, Mark saw a pair of plain black sandals materialize before his eyes. There was a loud crack of shattering bone, and the body of the commando collapsed in a heap inches from Mark's nose.

"What's wrong?" asked a new voice. A pair of leather loafers appeared next to the sandals. "Who's that?"

"Do not look!" implored the first. "Whatever it is, it is writhing like a Pyongyang harlot beneath that behemoth."

"Top guy's dead, Little Father."

"Worse still. Stop that this instant," the first man clapped disapprovingly. "My young son does not need to see such depravity."

"By the looks of it, this guy wasn't very well liked by anyone around here."

A pair of hands dropped beside the loafers. A face at once both cruel and curious peered at Mark Howard.

"Hiya," Remo Williams said.

Mark felt a sudden blessed lightness as the body of Jennio Gabinetto was lifted off of him.

"Okay, what's your story?" Remo asked as he tossed the three-hundred-pound corpse lightly over his shoulder. His eyes strayed to the fresh rope burns on Mark's wrists.

The CIA analyst climbed to his feet, cradling his injured arm. "CIA," he explained, panting.

"Oh," Remo nodded, the light of understanding dawning. "The Keystone Kops of the spy world. Word of advice for the future, Nick Danger? Really bad form to get smothered under a big fat guy while you're doing that dippy spy stuff you people do." And with that, he turned from Mark. "This way," he said to Chiun, pointing out into the large back room.

Chiun was standing beyond Remo. His wrinkled face offered Mark a look of disapproval. When Remo headed for the door of the small office, the Master of Sinanju spun after him, kimono hems swirling around his bony ankles.

Mark knew without a doubt that these were Smith's men. And loud in his ears, the feeling was screaming that this was both a moment of great import and dire consequence.

By the sound of it, the two men had cleared a path to the front door. He could duck through the hole in the wall and escape into the night, without further risk to his own life. But his heightened instinct told him that there was something more to be learned here.

Scooping up his gun in his good hand, he hustled out into the big room after them.

Remo and Chiun were walking over to the far corner. The way they moved, it was as if theirs were a single mind, connected by a string of unspoken thought.

As they strode past the door leading into the front office, a huge figure suddenly lunged in at them like a wounded bison. Mark fell back into the wall, startled.

Fabio Gabinetto had been shot in one shoulder, yet he still lumbered forward. His arms were stretched out wide, ready to ensnare Remo in a crushing bear hug.

Remo didn't even seem to notice. At the moment when Fabio's arms should have encircled his chest, he simply ducked out of the way. Fabio's forward momentum couldn't be slowed. As he thundered impotently past, Remo snagged him by the scruff of the neck. His legs continued pumping as he dangled in midair from Remo's outstretched arm.

"There," Remo pronounced.

The rest rooms stood side by side in the corner of the room. Remo aimed a finger at the closed ladies' room door.

A few yards back, Mark was amazed to see that there was no sign of strain on Remo's face as he held the still cantering Fabio a foot off the floor. "Put that down," Chiun clucked.

"Huh?" Remo asked. He looked over at Fabio as if just realizing he was there. "Oh."

Whipping the gangster around, he planted his head neck deep in the nearby wall. The body went slack, toes barely brushing the dirty floor.

Chiun was already at the restroom door. He opened it with a simple hand slap.

A man was hiding inside the small room. When he saw the two men framed in the doorway, his eyes grew wide inside his ski mask. Something flashed in his hands.

Behind Remo and Chiun, Mark Howard caught the glimpse of movement. "Gun!" he yelled in warning.

As soon as he shouted, he threw himself at the floor, aiming his own weapon between the two men. Fresh pain from his broken wrist shot up his arm.

In the instant Mark winced, Chiun's hand snapped down. The CIA agent's eyes opened just in time to see the old man's fiercely sharp fingernails sail through the commando's gun barrel. Mark watched in astonishment as a section of rifle clanked on the tile floor. It was joined by two others. Sitting on the toilet in the single-stall room, the masked man suddenly found his hands grasping air.

"Thanks for the warning," Remo said dryly to Mark. "And if you wanna make a bang noise when you point that thing at people, you might want to take the safety off."

Turning back to the commando, he pulled off the man's black mask. The terrified face of General Rolando Rodriguez cringed from his darting hands.

"Okay, I've had it up to here with you nimrods trying to kill me six ways to Sunday," Remo said with a scowl. "I want to know why you're after me and I wanna know now. Otherwise, you're going headfirst into that bowl, and I won't stop flushing until there's nothing left but a pair of really smelly Che Guevara boots."

Rodriguez wanted to lie. But he had seen the result of this man's work at MIR headquarters back in San Juan. Fresh fear of the thin young man and his terrifying Asian companion supplanted all other concerns.

"She made me come after ju," Rodriguez blurted. His soles were on the toilet seat and he hugged his knees, shrinking from Remo and Chiun. "After what ju did to MIR in Puerto Rico, ju became a threat to her ambition."

"These attacks had nothing to do with Raffair?" Remo asked, surprised he'd been wrong all along. Rodriguez shook his head.

"No," he insisted. "She just told us where ju would be. In Boston, we knew you would be coming soon, but at the places like this we were told to wait. She did not know when you would arrive, only that you would come."

"Okay," Remo said. "Here's the twenty-thousand-dollar question-who's 'she'? The only one who knows about us is our boss, us and..." His voice trailed off. It struck him like a bolt out of the blue. "Oh," he said quietly.