Syndication Rites td-122

by Warren Murphy

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

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

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

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

  "Sweet had no knowledge of the masked men?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Remo followed him outside, shamefaced.

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

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

  "Oh, not again," Remo groused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 24

  It was raining in Naples.

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

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

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

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

  But that was about to change.

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

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

  They had been second to the Mafia far too long.

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

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

  Those had been brutal times.

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

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

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

  No longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I should have known," Remo nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "There is nothing here," he complained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Who?" Smith asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Smith gave them a withering look.

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

  "Yes, sir," the CURE director replied.

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

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

  "It's called bullshit," Remo disagreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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