"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 w
ar. 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 lead
er 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.
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