"Thanks, Smith," the President said, the warmth still lingering in his tone. "You know, man's best friend ain't a dog," he added knowingly. "Those fickle fleabags'll turn on you faster than a drunken ex-press secretary. Cats are the pets that are the real loyal ones. Nice pussy." This last phrase was uttered lovingly off the phone.
As soon as the President had said it, there came a violent hissing from nearby. It was followed by a yelp of pain from the chief executive.
"Dammit!" the President snapped into the receiver. "She even had the damn cat brainwashed for voice commands."
Smith sat up straighter in his chair. "Is everything all right, Mr. President?" he asked, concerned.
"No," the President said sourly. "Who knew you could have a cat reclawed? Just keep looking into that stuff, Smith. I've gotta go find some Bactine." With a final angry huff, the chief executive severed the connection.
Smith slowly replaced the red phone. The frown on his gaunt face had only deepened during their conversation.
While Presidents often informed Smith of wrong-doing, in the nearly forty-year history of CURE, not one chief executive had ever been interested in something so small.
A counterfeiter. Why would the commander in chief be concerned with something so trivial? Smith glanced down at his computer screen. The word "Raffair" blinked up from the sinister depths of his desk.
Wondering what could be going through the President's mind, Smith stretched a hand for the blue contact phone.
FOR THE SECOND MORNING in a row, Remo's peace was shattered by the full-throated yapping of Wylander Jugg. Rather than get into another argument, he'd ducked outside, ignoring the nasty looks given him by two women pushing baby carriages down the sidewalk in front of Castle Sinanju. He spent the bulk of the day hiding out at the dollar movie theater, returning home as the setting sun was just beginning to touch the tops of the nearest buildings.
The condominium complex was brightly lit and blessedly silent. As he walked inside, the Master of Sinanju was floating down the main staircase.
"Why's it so quiet in here?" Remo asked. "Wylander take eating breaks in midrecord? Not that I think that'd be very quiet."
"I am resting my ears," Chiun said. "A handful of flowers is a bouquet-a field is hay fever."
He turned abruptly away from his pupil, rounding the base of the stairway. Remo trailed the old Korean down the hallway to the kitchen.
"A guy I never met before just stopped me outside to ask us to keep it down in here. His newborn's got colic, and Wylander's keeping her awake."
"Impossible," Chiun sniffed. "If anything, she should be lulled to sleep. Tell this whoever-he-is that his disagreeable offspring will only cause some man grief later in life. He should drown her in Quincy Bay at once and spare her poor future husband."
In the kitchen, Chiun began poking through the cupboards. He crinkled his nose in displeasure. "Good way to make friends," Remo groused, leaning against the counter.
"I do not need friends. I have you."
Although he smelled a scam a mile away, Remo still felt his heart lighten. "Okay, what do you want?"
"Duck," the old man answered. "Preferably ruddy duck."
"Aw, c'mon, Chiun," Remo said, the beginnings of a smile evaporating. "You've got a hundred fish tanks in the cellar."
"I do not feel like fish."
"Okay." Remo sighed, pushing away from the counter. "There's duck in the freezer."
The Master of Sinanju shook his head. "No," he insisted. "You thaw it improperly. I want fresh duck."
"Frozen or fresh tastes the same to me."
"Your barbarian's palate goes well with your Philistine's ears," Chiun droned. "We will go out to eat."
"But I've been out all day," Remo complained. "I had to put up with two hours' worth of that wet-eyed moping that Tom Hanks calls acting, not to mention some sci-fi mess with Jann Revolta in dreadlocks that made me want to start a freaking crusade against that dipwaddle Hollywood cult of his. Can't we just spend a quiet stress quiet-night at home?"
Chiun waited until he was finished. The old Asian wore a deeply thoughtful expression. "I wonder if the restaurant will have ruddy duck?" he mused. "Oh, well. Whatever the house duck is will suffice."
Remo opened his mouth to speak when the phone squawked abruptly to life.
"Oh, and Smith called," the Master of Sinanju offered absently as his pupil reached for the telephone.
"Hello," Remo said into the receiver as he gave the old Asian a peeved glance.
"Remo, it is about time." Smith sounded more agitated than normal. "I have tried to call a dozen times today."
"I spent the afternoon in exile," Remo said aridly. "What's up? You find out where our faces got beamed?"
"Not yet," Smith replied. "The biggest impediment to that search is the easy acquisition of such technology by private individuals. One need no longer hire a service to set up a system like the one you encountered."
"Okay, so we go to question B. What about the guys who attacked me?"
"Nothing on that front, either, I'm afraid," Smith said. "But there is something else you can look into. The man who purchased the building you were filmed in lives near you. Perhaps he can offer a lead, if not to Raffair itself at least to where the satellite image was directed."
Remo scrunched up his face. "I thought we were gonna give the small fries a rest until we could go after the big kahuna."
"There are no small matters where you are concerned, O Emperor," Chiun called. "For anything that gives your soul a moment's distress is an enemy of tranquillity that must be dealt with harshly by your humble servants. Point us to he who vexes your thoughts, and Sinanju will make him rue the day he had the temerity to trouble your sweet mind."
Remo cupped the phone. "You're still angling to go out to eat," he accused.
Chiun's face was bland. "We are going out," he said firmly. "As long as we are, we might as well humor His Royal Grayness. Plus I am tired of his phone calls disturbing my peace every five minutes."
Frowning, Remo took his hand off the phone. "Okay," he sighed. "Looks like we're going out. Who is this guy?"
Smith gave him the name and address of Paul Petito. Remo jotted it down on a pad next to the phone.
"Got it," he said once the CURE director was through. "Although I still don't know why we're wasting our time with all this. I was sure you'd get tired of this whole 'let the President leave with a smile on his face' thing after last night's fiasco. Plus aren't there any maniacs with weather machines or neo-Nazis bent on world conquest out there yet?"
"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 bl
ue 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."
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