Investigate Raffair. It seemed like such a minor thing-something that shouldn't interest the outgoing leader of the free world. More for the office he held than for the man himself had Smith agreed. A final act of professional courtesy for a man who would almost certainly be one of the last Presidents Harold Smith would serve.
Beyond his picture window, the Sound continued to churn white. Smith blinked the water away. Replacing his spotless glasses, he turned back to his desk. His hands had not yet brushed the keyboard when the blue contact phone on his desk jangled to life.
"Smith," he said crisply.
"Only me, Smitty," Remo's voice announced. "I've got some bad news and some weird news out of New York."
"I have seen the preliminary police report," Smith said. "Fine was murdered in his office."
"That's the bad. By the sounds of it, in broad daylight in a building full of people," Remo said. "We didn't have much time to ask around, so you're gonna have to keep your eyes peeled for police reports if you want us to follow up."
"Why?" Smith frowned. "Did you have difficulty there?"
"We had difficulty everywhere," Remo said. "As far as the inside-the-building part goes, there was screaming, shooting, running. You know, the usual."
Smith pursed his lips. "Remo, I have a report here of two men who eluded police capture at the LFB building this morning," he began cautiously.
"Did they baffle their pursuers by effecting an amazing escape from a moving elevator car?" Remo asked proudly.
Shutting his eyes, Smith pinched the bridge of his nose. "That was you and Chiun," he said dully.
"Escaping, yes," Remo agreed. "But it was my idea to use the trapdoor."
"It was also his idea to get us shot at, Emperor Smith," the Master of Sinanju's squeaky voice called from the nearby background.
"Technically, that was more the cops' idea than it was mine, Little Father," Remo said.
"Remo," Smith interrupted wearily, "I should not have to remind you to exercise discretion."
"Discretion had nothing to do with this one, Smitty," Remo said. "The folks there were already wired about Larry Fine's Raffair business partners long before we even showed up. Chiun's thinking it's some kind of Mob hit."
"I said nothing of the kind," the Master of Sinanju called. "I merely correctly observed that the stooge's killers were sons of the Tiber."
"Tiber?" Smith sounded puzzled.
"Does he mean they were Italians?"
"At the risk of getting picketed by the antidefamation league, yeah," Remo said. "At least that's the vibe he got from sniffing around the body."
"Hmm," Smith mused. "The Mafia angle might fit with what little I have learned of Raffair so far. They seem marginally connected to trucking, construction, waste removal and the like. However, on the surface, Raffair's activities appear to be legal."
"Yeah? Well, dig deeper," Remo said. "Because by the looks of it, they've got roving hit squads out trying to stab innocent pedestrians."
"What are you talking about?" Smith asked. Remo quickly told him about the two masked men he and Chiun had encountered on Wall Street. "That does not make sense," Smith said once he was through. "If you are telling me everything, you did nothing at LFB to provoke such an attack." "I'm glad you're with me on this one, Smitty," Remo said. "All we were doing was minding our own business. Oh, and the guys with the knives were wearing some kind of button. I never saw the design before. I gave a cabbie a couple hundred bucks to drive it out there."
Smith's brow was troubled. "I am curious to see it," he admitted. "I would have to say, however, that this attack-whatever the reason-is unrelated to your visit to LFB. Perhaps it was a simple assault."
"I don't know," Remo said uncertainly. "They seemed to be targeting me specifically."
"Nonetheless, I doubt we need be concerned that it has anything to do with Raffair." Smith's voice remained troubled.
"If you say so," Remo grumbled. "I have my doubts, though. And while we're on the subject, what the hell kind of name is Raffair?"
This was something that had vexed Smith from the start. "It strikes me as somewhat familiar," he admitted. "Although I have no idea from where I would know it." His brow wrinkled above his tired eyes. "No matter. After the events in Fine's office, as well as your encounter in the street, it would be best for you and Chiun to return home. I will do further research on this end."
"You're doing a lot of work for a guy who's gonna be out of office in a couple of days, Smitty," Remo suggested. "Just in case you forgot, Chiun and I are due to make him forget all about our little quilting bee this Friday night."
Alone in his Folcroft office, Smith's spine stiffened at Remo's reminder. His thoughts turned to his earlier concerns for his own memory.
"I had not forgotten," the CURE director replied tightly. He moved to his keyboard. "Raffair has established several offices around the country," he said as he typed. "When you arrive in Boston, perhaps you should check the one there before going home."
He read Remo the address from his monitor. "Can do," Remo agreed. "And we'll do our best to keep from getting shot at. Scout's honor." With that, the buzz of a dial tone replaced Remo's voice. Smith hung up the phone.
He sat there for a moment, staring off into space. Remo's flippant attitude toward the events in and outside the LFB building had become the norm. There was a time when even he would have recognized what a potentially serious breach of security his and Chiun's actions of this morning represented. Not anymore. That Remo was long gone. In a lot of ways, his attitude was now Chiun's.
Perhaps it was Smith's own fault. Maybe he had been too forgiving of these lapses. It just seemed that there was no way to rein in Remo and Chiun.
A muted ringing shook him from his reverie.
It was the special White House line. The President was no doubt looking for another update.
For the first time in a long time, Smith let the phone go to two rings. Finally, with an exhausted groan, he stretched his gnarled hand to his bottom desk drawer.
Chapter 10
Mark Howard scanned the Associated Press report for the third time.
The news story out of New York was short. A junior executive at Lippincott, Forsythe, Butler had been murdered. Mark wouldn't have given the story a second look if not for the connection to Raffair.
As it was, he studied the terse text carefully. His green eyes-flecked at pupils' edges with creeping brown-were alert, straining to see something he might have missed.
There was nothing.
No feelings came to him as he exited the report. There was no need. It didn't take any weird supernatural instinct to tell him that somebody was covering their tracks.
In the privacy of his drab cubicle, recycled basement air hissing through rusted vents, Mark leaned back in his cheap blue swivel chair.
He'd picked up the chair himself at an office supply store after his last one had broken. The way the CIA's budget had been going these past few years, he would have been lucky if they'd requisitioned him an orange crate to sit on.
He had been trying to put that morning's White House meeting out of his mind. There was something extralegal going on at the highest level of American government. And somehow-at least peripherally-Mark Howard was involved. Since he had no control over it, he'd opted to ignore it.
On his desk sat a manila folder. He'd begun assembling a file on Raffair after the botched DEA raid the previous week.
There had been a lot to sift through. Mark had spent many monotonous hours collating the material, most of it on his own time. Still leaning back, he stretched out a hand, pulling the folder into his lap. Absently, he flipped open the cover.