Since the CIA's responsibilities were to advise the President and NSC on international developments, Mark assumed that his memo would be turned over to the SEC or FBI at best. At worst, it would be ignored completely. The fact that it had been read by the President shocked him.
He could feel the eyes of the other men burning into him. The CIA director seemed particularly agitated.
In the outer room, the sobbing continued. "There, there," the disembodied voice of the President's secretary consoled. "I know getting a new job's scary, but it must have been even scarier when you were inventing the Internet. Here, let me get you some nice warm cocoa."
The door closed carefully, silencing the crying man.
In the Oval Office, Mark cleared his throat. "The incident in Cuba is part of something larger that's emerged in the last month or so, Mr. President," he began. "I think it's linked to a company called Raffair."
"I know," the president said impatiently. "I read your report. Why do you think it's connected?"
Mark glanced at the CIA director. The older man's eyes were locked on his.
Howard knew he'd be laughed out of the room if he mentioned the feeling. He'd spent his entire adult life avoiding explanations for his gift. Fortunately, it wasn't necessary to get into detail here.
"Simple," Mark began, fidgeting uncomfortably. "Raffair was mentioned during a drug raid that went wrong late last week. I happened to check the company's stock price the next day. Turns out it went up a couple of points. After yesterday's screw-up in Cuba, Raffair's stock went down. I thought I smelled a pattern, so I did a little digging. Turns out every time Raffair's stock dips, there's been some kind of action against organized crime the day before. Otherwise, they've had nothing but smooth sailing for the past month, ever since their ISO."
Mark tried not to meet the disapproving gazes of the other men. He kept his eyes focused on the President.
Behind his desk, America's chief executive nodded.
It was as if the others weren't even there. Howard had heard this about the President. The commander in chief had an unerring ability to make a person feel as if they were the only other human being on the face of the planet.
"You sure about all this?" the President asked, biting his lip in thoughtful concentration.
"Yes, sir," Howard said. "Raffair took its biggest hit last Monday when the President-elect mentioned his new drug policy. The stock really took a tumble that day."
The President's face soured at the mention of his successor. "That reminds me," he grumbled to himself. "I've got a meeting to set up with him. Betty!" he shouted.
His secretary's door opened. A middle-aged black woman stuck her face into the room. Behind her, the crying had only gotten worse. The man was blowing his nose loudly.
Although it was barely 7:30 a.m., the President's secretary already looked worn out. "Yes, Mr. President?" she asked wearily.
"I need to have a meeting with the incoming President."
The crying in the outer room grew worse. "Oh, gawd!" the man bawled, his voice filled with uncharacteristic emotion.
The secretary rolled her eyes apologetically. "I'll contact the transition people, Mr. President." She nodded. With an exhausted smile, she ducked back into her office.
Behind his desk, the President shook his head. "Cure," he said to himself, his hoarse voice laced with bitterness. "I'll show him cure." He rose to his feet, slapping his hands on his desk. "That's it. Everybody out."
The men in the room exchanged baffled glances. "But ...but our briefing," the FBI director said, his tone betraying confusion.
"Go brief yourself," the President said as he padded to the door. "I've got my own problems. Come next week, I don't even have a place to live. Worse, I could stay in New York. With her." He shivered visibly as he left the room.
Behind him, the President's bewildered advisers began gathering up paperwork and briefcases. Mark Howard didn't even notice the evil glance the CIA director gave him as he collected his own satchel from the floor next to the sofa. His thoughts were somewhere else, far beyond the confines of the Oval Office, a room that now seemed much smaller than it had just a few minutes before.
In the space of this one small meeting, the entire world had collapsed and coalesced into an unrecognizable shape. Numbly, Mark rose from his chair and walked to the door.
Smith, the background check, the President. It was all tied in. Something was very definitely going on. And whatever it was was huge beyond the measure of it.
Mark Howard could feel it.
THE PRESIDENT DID his best to ignore the packing crates stacked in the hallways of the West Wing. In the main mansion, he took the private elevator, getting out at the family quarters.
He closed his eyes in strained patience when he heard the familiar low rumble to his right.
Down the hall, the President's Labrador retriever exposed its teeth, growling menacingly as he passed. Scraps of shiny paper were spread on the floor around its paws.
His wife had sent the dog for some kind of special obedience training while the chief executive was in Europe the previous year. When the President got back home, the dog's attitude had been completely changed. It now growled and snapped at him whenever he came near. Every White House picture of the current President became a chew toy. He tried to ask his wife what she'd done to the animal, but she only smiled that emasculating smile of hers and flew off for another listening tour of New York.
He left the dog to chew on the state photograph of himself and Israel's Prime Minister Barak. Rounded shoulders sagging, he ducked into the Lincoln Bedroom.
The cherry-red telephone was in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. In another few days, he'd be showing the phone to his successor.
Sitting on the edge of the high bed, the President lifted the receiver. The phone had no dial. It didn't need one. Before it could ring twice, the call was answered.
"Yes, Mr. President?"
Efficient, as usual. The President scowled at the thought of the tart-voiced man on the other end of the line.
"I'm scheduling a meeting with the President-elect," the chief executive said, his voice flat. "Just like you asked."
No hint of emotion. "Thank you, Mr. President."
The President only grunted. "Still don't know why I have to do it. Why don't you just have those people of yours sneak you in here so you can talk to him yourself next week?"
"It has always been done this way, with but one exception. And that was only because of dire circumstances. It is best for the outgoing President to inform the incoming President of our existence. To do it some other way might suggest a rogue intelligence group."
"Yeah," the President said, dabbing at the thick rouge on his cheek. His finger came back orange. "Guess so. Hey, I've got something I'd like you to look into before I'm gone." He rubbed the makeup between thumb and forefinger.
A pause. "Yes?"
That snide tone. Filled with suspicion and condescension.
"It's just a small thing," the President said. "Someone's brought something to my attention about a company called Raffair." He went on to give the broad details as outlined in Mark Howard's report.
"That is not a typical assignment," came the lemony conclusion once the President was through. A moment of thoughtful consideration followed. "However, I will see if there is something larger at work there. Is there anything else?"
"No," the President said. "That's it."
"Goodbye, sir."
The line went dead.
The President replaced the phone, sliding the nightstand drawer closed with his ankle. "Goodbye to you, Smith," he said quietly.
More than anything, this President wanted a legacy. His last year in office had been about nothing but that, with little success. Until now. Although it wouldn't be written in any history books, he was about to get a real legacy.
The old man on the phone was a throwback to another era. It was the dawn of a new century. Time for new thinking. For young
blood.
As he was getting up from the bed, there came a growling and scratching at the door. With a beleaguered sigh, the President picked up a book from a stack on the nightstand. There were similar stacks all around the family quarters. His campaign manifesto, Between God and Man. How Great I Am had done extremely poorly in stores back in '96. Luckily, the President had recently found a new use for the cases that had been recalled.
He opened the door a crack, waving the cover with his picture through the opening. When the growling reached a fevered pitch, he flung the book down the hallway.
As the frantic trampling of the presidential dog receded in one direction, the President threw the door to the Lincoln Bedroom open and ran like mad in the other.
Chapter 7
Remo had walked the streets of Quincy late into the night, returning home in the wee hours of the morning. When he got back, the old church was blessedly silent. It was one-thirty by the time he crawled into bed.
His blissful sleep was shattered at 6:00 a.m. by the full-throated yodeling of the full-figured Wylander.
Apparently, Chiun didn't want to miss a single warbled note. While upstairs, he played the music softly enough, but when he ventured to other areas of the house he turned up the volume. Right now the Master of Sinanju was scouring the basement fish tanks for breakfast, Wylander was threatening to shatter the remaining windows in the bell-tower meditation room and Remo was on his way out the kitchen door. He had his hand on the doorknob when the wall phone rang.
Scooping up the phone, he jammed a finger in his free ear. "Make it quick," he warned.
The familiar voice of Harold W. Smith was as sour as a sack of trampled grapefruit.
"Remo, Smith. I-" the CURE director stopped dead. "What on earth is that din?"
Remo closed his eyes. "It's called a Wylander, Smitty," he said. "And get used to that name, because I have a feeling it's gonna come up during our next contract negotiations. Chiun's got that old Barbra Streisand gleam in his eye." He hopped to a sitting position on the counter. "What's up?"
"Er, yes," Smith said uncertainly. "I was actually calling for two reasons. First, to let you know that the bodies of the MIR terrorists have been discovered and second, to tell you that I have another small assignment for you."
The CURE director went on to tell him of the President's request that they look into Raffair, as well as more detailed background information Smith himself had dredged up following his conversation with the chief executive.
"Why don't we just run out the clock on this guy?" Remo asked once he was through. "He's gone on Saturday. Besides, this sounds like a nothing job."
"Perhaps," Smith said. "However, my relationship with this President has been-" he searched for the right word "-strained. I have decided that it would do no harm to indulge him in this one last matter."
"Leave on a high note, huh," Remo said. "I gotcha. Guess this is your way of apologizing for not crowning him King of North America and Sovereign Ruler of Guam, the Virgin Islands and American Samoa. Okay, Chiun and I will go rattle a few cages. It'll probably be good to get him out of here anyway. I think the neighbors are already assembling with torches and pitchforks."
Not wishing to ponder the ramifications of what Remo was saying, the CURE director forged ahead. Smith gave Remo the New York address of Lippincott, Forsythe, Butler.
"An agent for that firm guided the IPO for Raffair. Perhaps he can tell you how a company can do so well without having an apparent owner or generates revenue without producing a clear product. His name is Lawrence Fine."
Remo raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You're kidding, right?" he asked.
"Why?" Smith asked, puzzled.
Remo opened his mouth to explain. But then he remembered a story Smith had told him about the days when the future director of CURE and his wife were dating. They had gone to see a Marx Brothers movie, and Smith had spent the entire evening complaining about the fact that Groucho's mustache was only painted on and that Chico was obviously not Italian. For Smith, these transgressions shed serious doubt on the notion that Harpo was an actual mute. It was the last movie the Smiths saw together. The cultural vacuum the old man lived in would make an explanation pointless.
"No reason," Remo said. "We'll get right on it." As he spoke, he cocked an ear toward the hallway stairs.
The music seemed to have stopped. The silence lasted only a few seconds. Chiun had apparently bought a multi-CD player. Wylander's eardrum-detonating whooping began anew.
"I'm not kidding about Wylander, Smitty," Remo growled into the phone. "You'd better get on the blower to Monster Island, 'cause when the next contract comes due you're gonna need an awfully big cage for country's King Kong."
He slammed down the phone.
CHIUN AGREED to abandon his new lady love to accompany Remo to New York.
The short commuter flight was relatively incident free, with only two wet T-shirt contests and one midair chug-a-lug competition. Two drunken businessmen who threatened to defecate midway through the flight did so to protest the in-flight movie. Since it was an Adam Sandler film, Remo didn't blame them. The flight attendants were hosing down the carpets when he and the Master of Sinanju deplaned.
On the cab ride into the city, the old Korean was a picture of wrinkled contentment. He almost appeared to be in a state of grace. As they crossed the Williamshurg Bridge, Chiun let out a satisfied sigh.
"I know what's going on," Remo said abruptly. The wizened Asian continued to stare wistfully at the East River. His aged hands were clasped together in his lap, forming a tight knot of bone.
"Remind me to record such an historic moment in the sacred Sinanju scrolls," the Master of Sinanju replied.
Remo ignored the sarcasm. "Country music," he pressed. "I know why you like it so much."
Chiun turned a bland eye on his pupil. "Is there a way I might be spared this?" he asked.
"No, listen. You like Ung poetry, right?
A cloud formed on Chiun's brow. "Of course."
"Right," Remo nodded. "You like it even though it doesn't even rhyme, and everyone in the universe but you thinks it sounds like shit."
Chiun's eyes grew flat. "There are limits, Remo, to how much I will indulge you," he said in a level tone.
"Work with me here," Remo insisted. "Ung sounds awful, it's repetitive and totally devoid of any depth or beauty. Basically, it's Korean country music except with butterflies instead of barflies. That's why you like country music."
He nodded, a knowing look on his face.
Chiun's level gaze never wavered. "One day many years from now, Remo, scientists will crack open your granite skull and announce, 'Behold! Here was a being with the aspect of Man, yet possessed with a cavern between his ears!' School children will take field trips to see the hollowed head of Empty-Skulled Man."
He turned his aged face back to the cab window. The looming Manhattan skyline was reflected darkly in the glass.
"Empty head, but full heart," Remo smiled. "And I know I'm right."
"You are never right," Chiun replied without turning. "And you get more not right with every passing day."
LIPPINCOTT, FORSYTHE, Butler occupied most of a somber Wall Street building within shouting distance of Trinity Church. A plaque above the door read, simply, LFB. So celebrated was the firm that no more advertising was needed.
As their cab dropped them off, Remo took note of the police cruisers parked in front of the building. "Something's up," Remo commented as he and Chiun stepped around the police cars. "Maybe we should use a back door."
"You may climb through an alley window if you wish," Chiun sniffed. "I, however, will use the perfectly serviceable door before me."
Lifting up the hem of his purple kimono, the old man marched across the sidewalk. Eyes on the cop cars, Remo followed. Side by side, the two men strolled into the lobby.
The confusion inside was such that no one stopped them as they crossed to the elevators. They accompanied a pair of police officers
up to the fourteenth floor.
The doors opened on the sedate LFB logo. It was etched into a small bronze plate that was secured to the wall above a vacant receptionist's desk.
The cops walked from the elevator area down past several lobby desks, Remo and Chiun trailing. "Remember, Little Father," Remo whispered. "We're looking for a guy named Larry Fine."
"Yes," Chiun droned. "I don't know why you trusted that that was not some new manifestation of Smith's madness."
"Let's give Smitty a break, okay?" Remo said as they walked. "He's been living a waking nightmare these past few years. We're only here so he can make nice with the President before he leaves office."
"Then this is truly a waste of all our time," the Master of Sinanju muttered. "For Smith has already told us that we will visit the Corpulent Pretender in but a few day's time to administer the Emptying Basin."
This was the Sinanju selective-amnesia technique used to erase all memory of Smith, CURE and Sinanju from the minds of departing Presidents.
"Too bad we can't use that technique on 270 million more Americans," Remo said. "Make them forget the last eight years ever happened."
They followed the policemen through a wide archway and into a large, drab room filled with small cubicles. Coming toward them up the long gray aisle was a sheet-draped gurney.
"Uh-oh," Remo said. "I hope that's not who I think it is."
While the gurney was still at a distance, Remo stopped near a group of LFB employees. They were watching the approaching covered gurney with sick fascination.
"I'm looking for Larry Fine," Remo announced. Judging by the looks he received, his instinct about the gurney's occupant was correct. "Lawrence," a sniffling woman corrected. She dabbed her mascara-smeared eyes with a sopped Kleenex. "His name was Lawrence. Those thugs murdered him in his own office."
All of a sudden, it wasn't funny to make fun of his name. That happened not long after Fine's body was discovered, his neck nearly sawed through with a garrote wire.
Chiun fell in with the passing coroner's office procession. An unseen fingernail bounced the gurney's wheels over Remo's loafers on its trip out of the office. The Master of Sinanju continued with the rest out into the hall.
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