Inside, it smelled of dust and must. Remo moved through the gloom on cat feet, found a door, and eased it open.
His ears detected sounds. A steam radiator hissing. The dull roar of an electric furnace far below, probably in the basement. A mouse or rat scuttled among some papers on this floor.
There were no indications of human life. No sleeping heartbeats, no wheezing of lungs, gurgle of bowels, and other human-habitation noises.
Remo padded down two flights of stairs until he reached the first floor. The food smells were heavy here. Garlic predominated. They made Remo slightly nauseous. He no longer ate meat his digestive tract could no longer tolerate meat, thanks to the refining of his metabolism by Sinanju-and the scent repelled him.
When Remo oriented himself with the alley, he knew which door was the one he wanted. He stepped off the bottom stair and floated toward it.
He had no warning. None of his senses picked up anything. But suddenly an alarm buzzer snarled at him.
Remo moved fast. He hit the door with the flat of his hand, pushing it off its hinges and lock. He caught it before it crashed to the floor and set it against a wall.
In the darkness, his eyes raked the gloom.
"Where the hell is it?" he muttered.
Remo found the wastebasket in a corner. He grabbed it up. Empty.
He whirled. The buzzer continued buzzing. Another had joined it. That meant a second alarm in this room. He didn't know what had tripped it, but there was no time to worry about it.
Remo swept the room. The card table was empty. He decided to check the trash barrels outside. He went to the exit door and kicked it open. A hasp and padlock sprang apart with a bluish spark. Moonlight slanted in like an ethereal curtain.
Remo heard them coming up the alley before he stepped out into it. He slid off to one side and let them come.
There were two. Their fast-pumping hearts told him that.
"See anything?" one hissed.
"No. Just the door."
"You go first."
"Screw you. You go first."
"Okay, we'll both go. Get on the other side of the door."
A shadow crossed the spray of moonbeams at the door. Remo spotted the other one setting himself at the side of the open door. He had a revolver up in one hand. The other came up, making one finger, then two. Remo figured three was the signal.
He was right.
Shouting, they plunged in. One turned on a flash.
And while they were blinking into the backglow of the flashlight, Remo slipped out the door behind them and went up the brick wall like a teardrop in retreat.
He got down on the gravel of the roof and lay flat, figuring to wait them out.
It was a good plan. But he got no cooperation. Other men arrived. A black Cadillac turned into the alley and all four doors opened at once.
Remo waited for the excitement to settle down. When someone started to push on the roof trap, Remo rolled to his feet and glided to the parapet.
He made the leap to the opposite side of Salem Street from a standing start, rolled when he hit, and lay flat as he listened to the humming sounds of the Boston night.
The trap banged open. Remo caught a glimpse of the pale fan of a flashlight poking about the other roof. A voice called down, "It's clean."
Another voice called up hollowly, "Okay, come down."
After a few minutes, Remo felt it safe to slip along the rooftops. He climbed down at the dark end of the street, and moving with eerie stealth, worked his way unseen from the North End.
Chapter 9
Harold Smith was saying, "At a guess, you encountered a motion-sensitive alarm. They are quite common, capable of detecting minute changes in the air pressure of the secure environment being monitored. If disturbed by so much as a housefly, the alarm is triggered."
"The Mafia is getting more sophisticated in everything except choice of real estate." Remo frowned. He had found a pay phone in the shadow of Faneuil Hall, which smelled like a fish-processing plant. Traffic hummed on the nearby central artery. "Why don't I stick around and try again tonight?" ,
"No. They will be prepared for you."
"No one is prepared for me," Remo said. "This time I'll just-"
"Return for debriefing, Remo. This is a serious problem. As yet, we have only the skeletal outline of its nature. Before we blunder in any further, I would like to know what we're dealing with."
"The Mafia. What's so complicated about that?"
"Remo," Harold Smith said steadily, "if the Mafia is attempting to infiltrate IDC, the consequences would be catastrophic. All over this country, organized crime is on the run. More and more, those persons are taking refuge in legitimate or semilegitimate business enterprises. But if they are insinuating themselves into IDC, they will have virtually compromised American business as we know it, from the boardrooms to Wall Street. This cannot be allowed."
"So? I go in and crack skulls. Warn them off: The Mafia will understand that. It's their language."
"No. This calls for surgery."
"Speaking of surgery, this lump on my forehead is starting to worry me. It won't go away. In fact, I'd swear it's growing."
"Perhaps it is time we take care of that too," said Smith crisply. "While we consider a fresh plan of attack."
"What about that computer? We can't just leave it."
"You mentioned earlier that the voice coming from the other room asked for a Japanese technician."
"Yeah? So?"
"Perhaps Chiun will be able to accomplish what you could not. "
Remo laughed once shortly. "Smitty, there is only one problem with that little scheme."
"And what is that?"
"Convincing Chiun to pass as Japanese long enough to pull it off. It's a complete impossibility."
"Return to Folcroft, Remo," said Smith sharply.
"Can I come in the front door this time?"
"As long as you do it before daybreak. I will be here."
"on my way," said Remo, hanging up the pay phone and looking around for a taxi.
The taxis of Boston seemed to have gone into hibernation, so Remo decided to walk to the airport, which was not far away. He did not look forward to facing Chiun. It was funny how quickly he had fallen back into his old habit of taking the Master of Sinanju for granted. For over three months, Chiun had been believed dead and Remo had been like a lost child without him.
Remo decided to throw himself on Chiun's mercy. What was the worst he could do?
At Folcroft Sanitarium, Harold Smith replaced the blue contact telephone and turned his leather chair around to face the Master of Sinanju.
"He is on his way back," said Smith.
Chiun regarded Harold Smith with brittle hazel eyes.
"What must be done must be done," he intoned.
"Are you certain he will not be harmed by the operation?"
The Master of Sinanju shrugged his thin shoulders. "He is Remo. He is unpredictable. Who can say how he will react?"
"Then you agree this is the only way?"
"You are the emperor. Remo is your tool. It is your privilege to shape your tool as you see fit."
"I am pleased you see it that way." Smith reached for the intercom. "It is time to alert the surgeon."
Chiun intercepted Smith's hand with his own.
"Before this is done, allow me to present you with several sketches I have made, the better to guide the skilled hands of the physician as he goes about his important work."
From one sleeve of his kimono Chiun withdrew a sheaf of parchments rolled tightly together. With a flourish, he presented them to Harold Smith.
Smith spread them open on the desk. After a quick examination, he looked up.
"I hardly think Remo would be happy with any of these faces," Smith said with dry disapproval.
Chiun shrugged. "Remo is determined to be unhappy, whatever comes. What matter the degree of his unhappiness?"