Syndication Rites td-122

by Warren Murphy

  "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 fel
l 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.