Syndication Rites

He turned to the Master of Sinanju. There was a hint of a knowing look on the old man's otherwise inscrutable face.

"She's your-" Rodriguez began.

They were the only words he managed to get out before the hardened finger pierced his occipital lobe. All speech, thought and life ended at the same time for the revolutionary leader. When Remo pulled his finger free, General Rolando Rodriguez toppled sideways into the wall of the toilet stall.

Remo spun. His face was a dark thundercloud. "Let's go," he said to the Master of Sinanju. Behind them, Mark Howard had climbed back to his feet. He'd been listening to the commando's words with growing fascination, but when Remo and Chiun swept toward him, the CIA man backed nervously against the wall.

Chiun breezed past him without even acknowledging his existence. Remo stopped before the young man.

For a moment, Mark held his breath, unsure what his fate might be. When Remo raised a hand, he flinched.

Remo extended a cautionary finger. "Forget everything," he warned. "It beats me having to kill you."

That was it. The hand lowered and he was gone. Out into the main office. A minute later, Mark heard the sound of an engine turning over. The car faded into the night.

Only when the sound had died completely did he exhale. As he leaned against the wall, his shoulders sagged. He hugged his broken wrist as he tried to catch his breath.

He'd done it. He had faced down the fear of his own destiny and had survived.

Smith and his agents were irrelevant to his future-at least for now. Surprisingly, fate had brought him here to learn something else entirely. Something that went to the character of the man who had found him toiling in anonymity at the CIA.

MIR. The Puerto Rican separatist group. A huge controversy over a year ago. And here were the terrorists now, apparently sent after one of Smith's agents.

Mark knew the truth. And he also knew that no matter what he was asked to do by the President of the United States between now and Inauguration Day, he would not allow himself to be corrupted. Ever.

Still bracing his arm, he pushed away from the wall. His breathing was close to normal.

The authorities would be here soon. He'd better get his holster and get out before they arrived. Leaving the bodies of Fabio Gabinetto and Rolando Rodriguez, Mark C. Howard headed for the back of the tomb-silent Raffair office.

Chapter 32

Remo called Smith from the plane.

"You were right, Smitty," he announced. "Those Puerto Rican terrorists are the ones who've been trying to kill me all along."

"I know," the CURE director replied. "The man you brought back here regained consciousness a few hours ago. I tried to call you during your flight from New Orleans to Miami, but the plane's system was down."

"The navigator probably shorted it out when he accidentally spilled his rum and Coke," Remo said dryly. "So did he tell you who's behind it?"

"Yes," Smith replied, thin distaste in his voice.

"Oh." Remo sounded disappointed. He had wanted to be the one to tell the older man. "We're giving a pass to the other Raffair offices," he said. "Chiun and I are flying back to New York. We'll hit her first and then put this whole goose chase to bed."

Smith's reply surprised him. "No," he said. "No matter what the motivation was to involve us, Raffair is still a danger. I have had no luck tracing Anselmo Scubisci's benefactor. Once you are finished here, I want you to go to the federal penitentiary in Missouri and find out from him who is behind this."

Remo sighed. "Okay."

"And, Remo," Smith warned. "Do not kill her." He wanted to make his orders clear, so he did not substitute a euphemism for the distasteful word.

"Kind of figured that," Remo replied. "But I'm looking forward to this inauguration like I've never looked forward to one before, and if I miss it because of jet lag, I'm gonna insist that Chiun start listening to country music again. And since we're house guests of yours for the foreseeable future, you'll have half the staff of that nuthouse up on the roof banging down loose shingles."

Chapter 33

The heavy blue quilt was pulled up to her neck. Lying alone in her big comfortable bed in New York's Westchester County, she was trying desperately to banish the vexing thoughts that had plagued her this past week.

Though dawn was still a few hours away, the soft Spanish voice still droned incessantly in the background. Just as it had for the past twelve months. Even at night she'd been allowing the soft words to penetrate her brain. But though the faceless man had recited ceaselessly-day after day, week after week-she just wasn't getting it.

"iEsta Susana en casa? Si, esta con una amiga. Donde esta en la sala. No, en la cocina. "

The metallic man's voice stopped short. There was a soft whir and a click, followed by silence. From her bed, she snaked out a hand. Fumbling around the nightstand, she popped the front on the portable tape player. She pulled out the ninety-minute cassette. Printed on its side was the phrase: "Learn Spanish just like the diplomats do! It's easy, fun and fast!"

She flipped the tape and dropped it back in the machine. When she pressed the Play button, the man continued to recite the same dialogues she'd been listening to for months.

For some reason, the words just weren't sticking. There was no reason why she shouldn't be picking it up easier. After all, she was the most brilliant woman ever to set shoe to soil. Time, Newsweek, Eleanor Clift and all the major networks had told her so for the past eight years.

But in spite of her penetrating intellect, so far the only words she'd learned were hola and si. And though no one in the Movimiento de Izquierda Revolucionaria dared tell her, she still mispronounced both of those.

"Stupid language," she muttered under her sleep mask. "My first edict will be to make that filthy little island an English-only zone."

When a voice answered her from out of the night, she was stunned that it did not come from her tape player.

"Does that include the name Puerto Rico, too? 'Cause the only ones who really stand to benefit from that are the mapmakers."

When she whipped off her mask, she winced. The bedroom lights had been turned on.

Two men stood near the door. She recognized them at once. "You," the First Lady of the United States screeched.

Remo's face was hard. "And everyone knows that the mapmakers are still sitting on the sacks of gold they made after Russia collapsed," he concluded.

Beside him, the Master of Sinanju offered a polite bow. "Madam," the old Asian said.

The First Lady didn't return the courtesy. In a flash, she shot up out of bed, planting her bare feet firmly on the ornate Oriental rug that had been stolen from the White House Map Room. With an ungodly howl, she ripped the nightstand tape player up and flung it at Remo's head.

He plucked it from the air, carefully pressing the Stop button before placing it to the floor.

She threw a lamp at the Master of Sinanju. The old man ducked to one side, and the lamp shattered against the wall.

Panting, she wheeled on them, all bobbing pageboy hair and flashing teeth.

"I knew it was you," the First Lady hissed. "I only met you those couple of times, but as soon as that spic Rodriguez mentioned those freaky wrists of yours, I knew it."

Remo looked down at his own wrists. They didn't seem so bad to him. "Yeah, well, if I had thighs like yours, lady, I wouldn't be commenting on anyone else's shortcomings," he said in an injured tone.

The First Lady didn't hear. She was drawing back her head to scream. When she opened her mouth, revealing twin rows of sharp teeth, she looked like a carefully coiffed hound getting ready to bay at the moon.

"Don't bother," Remo interrupted before she'd even sucked in enough air to fill her lungs. "The Secret Service has gone night-night for the time being."

The shriek died in her throat.

"What are you doing here?" she snarled. "Don't tell me those MIR morons blew it in Miami."

"Your soldiers have been vanquished by Sinanju, Your Majesty," Chiun replied.

"Sinny-what?" the First Lady demanded. She didn't wait for an answer. "Do you two know what you've done? You've delayed my ascension to the Puerto Rican throne. After the revolution, those greasy little wetbacks were gonna make me their queen. Now I'm gonna have to go out and find some more wrongly incarcerated revolutionaries for that worthless husband of mine to pardon within the next twenty-four hours."

Diving across the room, she grabbed for the phone on her dresser. A strong hand was already there, holding down the receiver. She looked up into Remo's hard face.

"Couldn't you just be content being a nuisance in regular America, and spare the protectorates?" he asked.

"Let me call!" she screamed.

As Remo held the phone, the First Lady pounded her furious balled fists against his chest. As she continued to punch him, he noticed a pin lying on her dresser. It was the same one with the weird parentheses-enclosing-a-circle design that all of his attackers had worn.

"What the hell is this, anyway?" Remo asked, unfazed by her attack. He picked up the pin. Panting, the First Lady fell back.

"It is a symbol of female gender superiority," she spit. "I was sick of you men with your phallocentric designs for everything from flagpoles to obelisks. That's a symbol of sisterhood designed by a female."

Remo looked at the button again. For the first time, he realized what it was.

"It's a woman's private parts," he said.

When he showed the button to the Master of Sinanju, the old man's eyes took on an appalled cast. Cheeks flushing, he covered his face with a billowing kimono sleeve.

"Put that smutty thing away," the old man insisted.

"It's nothing to get too worked up over," Remo said. "By the looks of it, the model was a robot."

"It's conceptual," the First Lady snarled.

"Not if it looks like that, it ain't," he said. He tossed the pin back to the dresser. "Okay, Cruella de Vil, let's get this over with."

"I will not be silenced!" she screamed, recoiling from his outstretched hand. "Everyone knew the Senate wasn't big enough to hold me! I'll be back!"

"Before then, remind me to buy stock in an earplug company," Remo said as he pinched a nerve on her shoulder.

Mouth still twisted open, the First Lady went rigid, then limp. Remo grabbed her as she fell, dumping her into a Louis Tiffany chair that had been bought for the White House by Chester Arthur. He brought his lips close to her ear.

"You're going to forget everything you know about CURE, Harold Smith and the two men you've been trying to kill this past week," Remo said. "You're going to forget all of this stuff forever, and you won't even be remotely interested in ever remembering. Do you understand?"

Her eyes closed, the First Lady nodded. She purred contentedly. It made her sound like a cat that had just eaten a particularly succulent rat.

Remo straightened. As he turned back to the Master of Sinanju, a thought suddenly occurred to him. He leaned back over the First Lady.

"And from now on, your role model for womanhood will be June Cleaver. You will cook, clean and bake cookies with a smile on your face and a song in your heart and you won't even be remotely interested in TV cameras, public life or inciting socialist rebellions. Oh, and you'll wear a frilly white apron wherever you go. Even in the shower."

When he stood back up, Remo wore a satisfied expression.

"America owes me big time," he announced. Leaving the soon-to-be ex-First Lady snoring complacently in her stolen chair-happy visions of vacuum cleaners and bundt cakes dancing merrily in her head-the two Masters of Sinanju slipped silently from the bedroom.

Chapter 34

In the predawn light of a small Missouri airport, a surplus Bell AH-1 Cobra helicopter hummed to life. The drooping rotor blades grew rigid, slicing air with violent purpose. Behind it, three more helicopters growled awake.

At the same time, from hangars draped in sheets of dying gloom, a stream of black vans rumbled forth, their occupants obscured by tinted windows.

On the runways, pilots in face-obscuring camouflage paint checked instruments with swift efficiency. When all was ready, the first chopper lifted into the sickly gray sky. A single streak of orange appeared over the eastern tree line.

The second helicopter lifted off, then the third and fourth. They regrouped above the black trees. Like angry hornets leaving a nest, the fully armed helicopters swooped down across the gray tarmac, briefly joining the convoy of vans before soaring back up over the distant trees.

Windows rattled in houses a mile distant as the helicopters tore away through the chilly air.

On the ground, the vans vanished down the road, drawing the last shadows of night in their wake. And then all was silent.

DON ANSELMO SCUBISCI burning the last of his Camorra correspondence in the toilet of his solitary-confinement cell when he heard the thunder. He checked his watch-6:00 a.m.

The first lonely booms grew in frequency and intensity until the very foundation of Ogdenburg Federal Penitentiary shook. The prison Klaxons blared to life.

And as the explosions grew closer and the prison erupted in the violence of panic, Don Anselmo Scubisci sat calmly on the edge of his bed. To await salvation.

AFTER LEAVING the First Lady's bedroom, Remo and Chiun had taken a direct flight to Missouri. Remo knew something was wrong the instant he saw the slivers of black smoke rising above the pines at highway's edge. His concern only grew worse when he saw three dozen men in orange jumpsuits running like mad through the woods. When they broke through the trees and saw the ravaged prison wall, Remo shook his head in angry disbelief.

Ogdenburg looked like Berlin after the war. The main walls were pulverized, collapsed into piles of rubble. The ruins of a downed helicopter sat like a squashed bug on the snow before the main entrance. Sirens blared even as more men in orange slipped through the many holes in the walls.

It looked as if rockets and truck bombs had been used to pierce the walls. One of the black vans hadn't exploded. Remo squealed to a stop beside it.

Behind the wheel was a man dressed in civilian attire. A dozen gold-and-silver crosses hung around his neck. For some reason, the General Mills logo was tattooed on the backs of his hands. He had missed reaching his target after being shot in the chest from a guard tower.

Blood gurgled from between the man's whitening lips. Holy Pauli Pavulla was breathing his last. "What the hell is this all about?" Remo demanded, already fearing what the answer would be. Holy Pauli gasped. "Don Scubisci..." he panted. His eyes were closed. "Had to spring Don Scubisci...."

Remo's face grew dark. "Where is he?"

At this, Holy Pauli's lips curled up. "Gone," he breathed. "Saw him get on the chopper with my own eyes. I did good by my Don." His eyes sprang open. He was staring through the cracked windshield at something far distant. "Sure, I'll step into the light," Holy Pauli gulped, his breathing becoming even more ragged. "But you silly rabbit, Trix are for... oh, wait, those ain't ears, are they?"

With a final wheeze, he slumped over the steering wheel. It honked like a desolate foghorn. "Dammit," Remo growled, "Thanks to her, we missed out on the action. We never miss out on the action. I'm telling you, Little Father, those two are a curse."

Chiun was cocking an attentive ear to the cold white sky. "Emperor Smith will not be pleased that the Roman lord eluded us, but he will be even less so if he learns that we have been filmed again," he intoned somberly.

Remo listened for what the Korean had heard. Helicopters. A lot, by the sounds of it. No doubt the press had heard about the mass escape at Ogdenburg and were racing to the scene.

"Why can't my life ever be easy?" Remo groused.

They dove into the car. Remo had to throw two convicts out onto the road before he could put it in Reverse and hightail it back down the highway.

Chapter 35

Mark Howard had endured the pain in his broken wrist for the whole flight back to Washington. He had the bone set at Arlington Orthopedic Hospital before returning home. When he finally trudged through the door of his apartment, it was Friday afternoon.

The digital answering machine on the stand inside the door registered one phone call. He ignored the steady beep of the machine while he pulled his gun out of his bag with his good hand. He stuffed the weapon and holster far back in his desk drawer. When he finally returned to the machine twenty minutes later, he was chewing on a ham sandwich.

Mark pressed the message button, turning the volume up loud. He walked into the living room, sinking into a chair as the message played.

"Hello, Mark?" asked the familiar hoarse voice. "You there? If you're there, pick up. No? Oh. This is your President speaking. No wait, scratch that. Got in trouble identifyin' myself on tape before. Anyway, I got an important offer I'd like to make you. You probably didn't know it, but I had you checked out these past few months. You got a real weird personality profile there, buddy. Loyal to your friends, dismissive of your enemies. Like they don't rate spit. Did you know they were thinkin' of firin' you once 'cause they thought you were hidin' something from them? But you passed all the lie detectors for national loyalty and that secret-keeping stuff, so they decided to keep you on.

"Anyway, I got a proposition for you that I think we should talk about in person. I got a car that'll come and pick you up at ten tonight. You don't have to do anything but get in. I'll tell you what's what when you get here. Uh, I guess that's it. You still not there? I really hate these goddamn machines. Okay, see you tonight."

Two seconds more of dead air and the answering machine beeped off. With a click, it reset itself to 0 messages.

In the living room, Mark's eyes were closed. He still held his sandwich, but he hadn't taken a bite since the message had started playing. He suddenly wasn't very hungry.

Mark tossed the sandwich to the coffee table. In doing so, he bumped his cast against the arm of his chair. He winced at the pain.

Treating his broken arm very gingerly, he pulled himself to his feet. He needed a shower. But he'd have to cover his cast with something first.

Mark shuffled off to the kitchen. To dump the loaf of Wonder bread out of its long plastic bag.

Chapter 36

The black Cobra helicopter carried Don Anselmo Scubisci across the border into Canada. A private jet bought by Sol Sweet with Raffair money was waiting for him. Before the American authorities were aware of what had even happened, Don Scubisci was far over the Atlantic. In half a day, he was on the ground in Naples.

A black limo with darkened windows was there to meet him at the airport.

The estate of Don Hector Vincenzo was a well-guarded fortress nestled safely within gently sloping hills at the fringe of Naples where the edge of the old city met the azure waters of the Tyrthenian Sea. The limousine kicked up plumes of dust in its wake as it drove past the naked winter vineyards to the big old house.

An armed guard met Don Scubisci's car at the end of the great round drive. The Manhattan Mafia leader was led through the cool, drafty house and out onto a glass-enclosed patio that overlooked dormant vineyards.

Don Vincenzo was sitting at a white wrought-iron table. A glass of deep red wine sat at his elbow. Beside it was a cloth bag, knotted at the neck. "You have had a busy day, Anselmo," Don Vincenzo said. He did not look at the younger man, did not offer a seat. As the Camorra leader stared out over his fields, Scubisci stood uncomfortably before him.

No men toiled among the vines. A cold sun shone down on the hills of Naples.

"I had nowhere else to go," Don Scubisci admitted.

"So you come straight to me? Lead them to me, hmm?" He finally turned to the younger Don. His watery old eyes were flat.

Don Scubisci pressed his hands together. "Please, Don Vincenzo," he begged, his voice a painful rasp. "My own people will not accept the wisdom of my decision to join with you. They will see it as an act of betrayal. I wasn't safe in prison. Some force unknown to me has destroyed all we built together. They would have come to me eventually. This I know. I had to flee from them and from my own people."

He was practically in tears.

"Would you serve me faithfully?" Don Vincenzo asked. He tipped his head as he looked up at the sweating man.

A spark of hope. Don Anselmo nodded desperately. "This I promise, Don Hector," he pleaded. "You have my word."

"You are disloyal to your own blood, and you expect me to believe you will remain faithful to me?" Don Vincenzo said, with doubtful amusement. Hope burned away. The words would not come.

"Please, " Scubisci wept finally.

"You are Mafia. La Cosa Nostra. I am Camorra. It is my blood, my soul. We were enemies before either of us was born, Anselmo. It is the way of things." Don Vincenzo waved a sad apology. "Thanks to long-ago fate, your people thrived in America. And because of that, your Mafia Families ran the world. For a time. But your power wanes. In time it will be no more." He smiled his row of yellow-brown teeth. "But Camorra will thrive after you are gone."

Don Hector Vincenzo took a thoughtful sip of his wine.

"You were weak after your imprisonment, Anselmo," he said, putting the glass carefully to the table. "I saw opportunity in that weakness. Raffair was not the simple moneymaking scheme I claimed. Nor was it your stepping-stone to domination of the American market. It was designed specifically to weaken the Mafia. If Raffair was successful for a time, I reaped the benefits. If Raffair failed publicly-and such public failure always involves the authorities, Anselmo-it would be a black eye for the Mafia. Either way I win. But, I am afraid, there is no way for you to do so. I am sorry for this."

A subtle nod. Missed by Don Scubisci. The American Mafia leader was about to plead for his life once more when it was suddenly and abruptly ended.

The bullet hit Don Anselmo Scubisci in the back of the head. His forehead yawned open, and he sprawled lifeless to the cold patio.

As bits of flesh and brain were splattering to stone, the guard who had led the Manhattan Mafia leader through Don Vincenzo's home replaced his rifle on his shoulder.

Still seated, the Camorra leader picked up the cloth bag from the table. Old fingers tugged open the string at the neck. Taking the bag by the end, he shook it a few times over the body of Don Scubisci. A fat white pigeon dropped onto the back of the dead Mafia leader.

"See that they are buried together," he instructed. "Yes, Don Hector."

Another guard appeared. The two men dragged the body off the patio. After they were gone, another came up the side steps, pulling a garden hose behind him. He began hosing the small specks of Don Anseimo Scubisci's brains off the windowpanes.

As the man worked, Don Vincenzo took a sip of wine. Sunlight sparkled off the glass.

It was time to start thinking about tomorrow.

Chapter 37

"There was some men come lookin' for you," Johnny Fungillo's mother told him as he stepped through the back kitchen door of her Jersey City house.

Johnny's hand froze on the doorknob. "What men?" he asked, eyes darting over his shoulder. Beyond, his mother's Mercury sat in the cold garage.

"What do I know what men?" Mrs. Fungillo asked with a frown of her great jowls. "Men." She didn't turn to her son. At the stove, she continued to use a big wooden spoon to stir the caldron of tomato sauce that bubbled on the back burner. Johnny immediately regretted coming back for some clean clothes. He left the door into the garage open. Glancing back over his shoulder, he hustled over to his mother.

"These men," he asked. "Were they young, old, what?"

"What are you doing leaving the door open?" Mrs. Fungillo asked, unmindful of the anxious look on her son's face. "It's the middle of January." She tasted a spoonful of sauce.

"Ma!" he snapped, grabbing her by the biceps. She recoiled. Her son had a murderous glint in his eye.

"Whatsa matter with you, Johnny?" she asked, drawing her orange-stained spoon to her ample bosom. "You in trouble again?" She saw for the first time the big circular bruise on his forehead. "Where'd you get that?"

He shook his head angrily. "The men," he demanded, squeezing harder.

"They come about an hour ago," Mrs. Fungillo said, wincing. She looked down with growing concern at her son's white-knuckled hands. His fingers bit into her big arms. "One was young and the other was real old. He was some kind of Chinaman. He was real nice. You know, polite."

"God," Johnny croaked, releasing her. Stunned eyes darted from his mother's sauce-splattered glasses to the cheap linoleum floor.

Mrs. Fungillo took a step back. Regaining her courage, she raised her stirring spoon like a weapon. "You and them slobs you hang around with could learn a thing or two about being polite from them Chinese," she warned him.

Johnny didn't hear. Before she'd even finished talking, he'd regained his senses.

He flew out the kitchen door, grabbing up his mother's car keys from the hook on the wall. He dove into her car, twisting the key violently in the ignition. The garage door split into a dozen neat panels as he plowed through it. The wood was flying into snowbanks on either side of the driveway as he slid out into the road.

He hadn't gotten as far as the stop sign three houses down when he heard something that froze his heart.

"Take your first left."

The familiar voice came from the back seat. He had heard it first in East Africa three months ago. Again on the plane in Boston earlier this week.

His frightened gaze strayed to the rearview mirror.

It was him. Along with the old man from the Boston Raffair office. Dead eyes stared through to Johnny's very soul. He was naked and alone on Judgment Day.

Johnny Books grabbed for the door handle. A long-nailed hand snagged him by the scruff of the neck, pulling him back into the driver's seat. "Please, " Johnny cried.

"We're beyond that," Remo said coldly. "Drive."

There was nothing else he could do. Johnny did as he was told. By the time they reached the empty parking lot behind the abandoned Newark tenement, he had told them where they could find Mikey "Skunks" Falcone and the third man who'd helped burn Castle Sinanju to the ground.

"We can cut a deal," Johnny begged as Remo dragged him out of the front seat.

"You don't have anything we want," Remo said as he hefted the thug into the air.

"Save one thing," Chiun intoned gravely.

As Johnny wept in fear, Remo flipped him upside down. He held the big man by one ankle, dangling him at arm's length above the ground.

The Master of Sinanju bent low. Johnny held his breath as the same deadly nails that had decapitated Louis Dir'rotti moved toward him.

Chiun's hand slipped past Johnny's frightened, upended face. He felt a tug at his hair. Not even very hard.

Johnny strained his eyes to see what the old man was doing. All he could see was the edge of the big purple bruise on his broad forehead.

Where Fungillo's hair brushed asphalt, Chiun twirled a single lock of greasy hair between two fingers. His fingertips rolled faster and faster until they became a barely visible blur.

A tiny curl of smoke rose into the air. Johnny caught a whiff as it rose past his nose. A look of upside-down horror appeared on his reddening face.

"No!" Johnny "Books" Fungillo screamed, just as his greasy hair burst into flame.

Johnny continued screaming as the fire climbed up his clothes. His jacket and trousers ignited rapidly. The sickly sweet smell of barbecued flesh filled the cold air.

For a few minutes, Remo tossed Johnny from one hand to the other. Eventually, when Johnny finally stopped screaming and the flames were too much for even Remo to bear, he tossed the burning corpse into a nearby Dumpster. The trash in the metal container flamed to life.

Remo and Chiun didn't give him another look. As the flames grew, charring to ash the body of the man who had taken their home away from them forever, they climbed into the front seat of Mrs. Fungillo's car. Leaving the fire to burn itself out, the two stone-faced men drove slowly out of the pothole-filled parking lot.

THE PRESIDENT of the United States sat in his bathrobe on the floor of the Lincoln Bedroom. Nearly everything was gone now, including the bed. The red phone was still there. He held it in his hand now as he tried to explain.

"I didn't mean for it to go bad like this, Smith," he said. "She just kind of makes things happen, you know?"

"No, I do not know, Mr. President," the disapproving voice of Harold W. Smith replied. "As for your wife's knowledge of our existence, that is as much my fault as it is your own. She inserted herself into enough crises in the past that I should have dealt with her long before this."

"Yeah," the President agreed hopefully. He bit his lip as he tried to go for the wiggle room. "It really is your fault more than it is mine."

"I did not say that, Mr. President," Smith said tartly, "and you cannot deny culpability in this matter."

The President rubbed anxiously at his face. A smear of orange rouge stained his pale palm. "You really made her forget about you fellas?" he asked.

"Yes," Smith replied. "Not that her knowledge of us was as extensive as yours. But she knew enough to make her a security risk. Obviously."

"Yeah, that was really awful how she made me tell her where your guys would he," the President said. "But you've met her-you can understand how I didn't have a choice."

"No, sir, I do not understand," Smith said icily. "You allowed your wife to manipulate you into placing my men at risk, all for some half-baked scheme that had no hope of succeeding. You had a choice. You could have refused."

"Maybe you haven't met her after all," the President exhaled tiredly. "She's taken me down this same road a million times. From universal health care to those Puerto Rican terrorists. What she wants, she gets."

Smith would not be led down that primrose path. "Before we end this conversation-which, Mr. President, will be our last-I need to ask a few questions. First, are the MIR revolutionaries associated in any way with Raffair?"

"No," the President replied. "I asked you to check Raffair out before my wife called me about you."

"So it was you personally who supplied the whereabouts of my men to your wife, and she in turn instructed the terrorists? There were no gobetweens?"

"Yeah," the chief executive said. "Each time her boys failed, she called me again, meaner than the last time. By the end, she was threatening to stay in New York, not even come down here for the inauguration tomorrow."

"Very well, sir," Smith said. "This ends your contact with this agency. Tonight you will brief your successor about us, and later in the evening, while you sleep, my men will visit you and perform the same procedure they have already performed on your wife. You will forget forever the existence of this agency and its personnel. Goodbye, Mr. President."

"Wait, Smith," the President called. His hand tightened on the red phone.

"Yes, sir?"

Sitting on the floor in his bathrobe adorned with the presidential seal, the President shifted on his ample rump. A lost-little-boy look came to his blotchy face.

"I wasn't so bad, was I?" America's chief executive asked. "I mean, this stuff at the end wasn't too great, but I was okay otherwise, right?" All his life he had always sought approval. He listened expectantly now for an answer.

At first, Smith's voice was flat and dispassionate. "Your actions have threatened us with exposure and put at risk the lives of my two operatives, men to whom this nation owes a debt untold for three decades of tireless, thankless service." By this point, his lemony tone was that of a disappointed New England school marm. "Yes, Mr. President, you were bad. You were very, very bad."

And with this final admonishment over, the red phone went dead for the last time in the ear of the future ex-President.

IN HIS FOLCROFT OFFICE, Smith replaced the phone with an authoritative click. Face pinched, he slid the drawer shut.

"Guess suck-up time is over," Remo suggested. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, the Master of Sinanju at his side.

Smith nodded tightly. "Tomorrow at noon, we begin with a clean slate. Although we must temper that fact with the knowledge that this President will doubtless not speak kindly of us when he briefs his successor tonight."

Remo shrugged, as if it were all a matter of supreme indifference to him. "One President's pretty much the same as the next one to me," he said. "This guy was no great shakes, but I've seen the new President, so I'm not getting my hopes up. I did like that part, though, where you played us up for our thankless service. That'll come in handy at contract time, I'm sure."

From the corner of his eye, he looked over to the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun sat rigid on the worn carpet, eyes straight ahead. His teacher's silent sadness brushed Remo's heart.

"While you were tracking down the three men who destroyed your home, I continued my search for Anselmo Scubisci," the CURE director said, changing the subject. "He took a jet from Canada to parts unknown. No flight plan was registered. I can't locate a pilot, so he cannot be traced for questioning. For all intents and purposes, Ansehno Scubisci has vanished without a trace."

"And lives to bug us some other day," Remo said bitterly. "If it wasn't for Washington's answer to Evita Peron and her San Juan ski patrol, we would have had him, Smitty."

"Yes," Smith said. "But let us view this with some optimism. Scubisci's plan was a failure. The Securities and Exchange Commission is now looking into Raffair. The stock has collapsed. Given all this, it is likely that Anselmo Scubisci's Camorra benefactor is not pleased with him. Perhaps our work has been done for us."

"I'm not too hot on leaps of faith, Smitty," Remo said. "And I remember a time when you weren't, either."

Smith leaned back in his chair, steepling his long fingers at his chin. "You will find, Remo, that the world changes as you age." His gray eyes were faraway.

The office lights were turned down low. They reflected dully on the big picture window behind Smith. For a moment, cast half in shadow and bathed in pale amber light, the figure seated behind that broad desk seemed unchanged from the first time Remo had seen him.

Smith spoke, breaking the spell. "I should inform the two of you that I have been considering suspending operations," he announced softly.

"Huh?" Remo asked. He glanced at the Master of Sinanju. This had gotten the old Korean's attention.

"The thought has been with me for some time," Smith admitted. "This posting has always been demanding, even in my younger years. And while you and Chiun have remained more than consistent in your abilities throughout our association, clearly I have not."

"You are in but the second blush of life, O Emperor," Chiun said dismissively. "Do not trouble yourself with such vexing thoughts until you have reached one hundred."

"Realistically, that is not an option," Smith said somberly. "And even if I were to stay on very much longer, I am not certain that I'm equipped to understand this new age."

"There's no new age, Smitty," Remo said. "It's always just the same crummy old one with a new coat of paint and a bigger price tag."

"I disagree, Remo. In my day, ordinary Americans would not have invested money in organized crime. A project like Raffair would never have been seriously considered by the Mafia. Such things are products of a different America. One which I am becoming less able to comprehend."

"Bulldookey," Remo offered. "Ow!" he said, feeling a sudden pinch on his thigh.

With a silencing look, Chiun withdrew his tapered nails.

"You will retire?" he asked Smith, his eyes narrowing.

Smith thought of the poison pill in his vest pocket. "In a manner of speaking," he nodded. "Before you leave on this sunny autumn journey, Smith the Generous, Sinanju craves a boon."

"If it is within my power to give it."

"Please be kind enough to tell the new occupant of the Eagle Throne that which you just told his lardbellied predecessor."

"I knew you were listening," Remo said. He had to slap a hand over his leg to avoid another pinch.

"The idiot is going to commit suicide," Chiun hissed in Korean. "Before he kills himself, he could at least put in a good word for us." To Smith, he said, "Your humble servants would be eternally grateful."

There was no rancor visible on Smith's tired face. As he nodded, he stood. "I will see what I can do."

"A thousand thank-yous, Emperor Smith," Chiun said, bowing his head. "Do not play us up too much, however. After all, we do not wish to appear desperate."

Smith came around his desk, his battered leather briefcase at his side.

"Where are you going, Smitty?" Remo asked, trying to dispel the mercenary air that had just descended on the dusty office. "I thought you didn't have to be back in your coffin until sunrise."

"Home," Smith replied. "And the two of you should be leaving, too. You have a plane to catch for Washington. I would appreciate it if you first disposed of the MIR agent you brought here. He is in the security wing."

"Can do," Remo nodded. He was studying the tired lines in the CURE director's face.

"When you leave, be certain to lock this room. Good night." With that, Smith left the office.

"Great," Remo muttered after he was gone. "More planes." He unscissored his legs, rising fluidly to his feet. "If there's any smuggled boom boxes on this flight, I'm tossing them through a jet engine."

Chiun rose delicately beside him. "Unless they are playing the lovely Wylander," he said.

Remo's head snapped around. "Whoa. You told me you were giving up country music."

Chiun gave him a look generally reserved for dim children and mental defectives. "Country music, yes," he said, turning on one heel. "Oxygen, no."

And as his pupil's face fell, the Master of Sinanju padded silently from the shadowy office.

Chapter 38

As promised, the government car picked him up at precisely ten o'clock. Mark didn't even try to engage the driver in conversation for the whole ride to Washington. Lost in silent thoughts, he braced his broken arm on the armrest and stared out at the twinkling lights.

At the White House, he was ushered up to the family quarters. He was surprised to see so little furniture upstairs. A butler brought him down to the Lincoln Bedroom.

The President was waiting for him at the door. No longer capable of being surprised by anything, Mark didn't even blink when he saw the second man who was in the room.

The President-elect sat on a hard wooden chair across the room. It was an old Truman kitchen chair that had to be brought up from a musty corner of the basement. There was very little good furniture left around the mansion.

An old-fashioned phone was at the future President's feet. It was fire-engine red.

"Hello, Mark," the current chief executive said. "I'm sure you two haven't met."

He waved a questioning finger between the President-elect and Mark.

Sitting on his chair, the man who would become President the following day at noon didn't seem interested in Mark in the least. He was studying the phone at his feet, the deep lines of his forehead creased down the middle.

"We were just having a little talk before you showed up," the current President said. "It's a matter that, well, that concerns you now."

He glanced at the President-elect. The other man's face was somber. When he turned back to Mark, the chief executive took a deep breath.

"Mark, let me tell you about a little something called CURE...."