The alphabetized listing of Raffair's offices was on top. The first was Boston, followed by Chicago, Houston, Los Angeles, Miami, New Orleans and New York.
For some reason, his eyes strayed to the short paragraph he'd assembled on the Boston office.
The building had been recently purchased by a Paul Petito. Mark found the transaction listed in the real-estate transfer section of the Boston Blade. According to public company records, Petito was Raffair's Boston branch manager.
Mark was surprised to learn after digging only a little further that Raffair wasn't that particular about whom they hired.
Petito had a criminal history dating back to his teens. Although he seemed to have dabbled in everything from extortion to burglary, apparently his real passion lay in counterfeiting. According to Mark's information, Petito had been released from his most recent prison sentence two months ago. He had bought the Boston Raffair building one month later.
Earlier in the day, Mark had printed the phrase "funny money?" in the margin beside Petito's name. Picking up a pen from his desk, he underlined the words.
Doodling absently on the paper, Mark allowed his thoughts to stray back to his early-morning meeting in the Oval Office.
The President had been deeply angry about something. Part of Mark's special gift allowed him to sense very strong emotions. Although it didn't take a mind reader to know that the President was unhappy about something, Mark alone had sensed how embittered the chief executive truly was. The well of resentment he wallowed in was deep and wide. And by the sound of what he'd muttered, a good chunk of his anger was directed at Mark's own General Smith.
How this involved him, Mark had no idea.
With a sigh, he pulled himself out of his thoughts. When he looked back down at his notes, he was surprised to see that his wandering pen had written something.
The words "Asian" and "white" were now written in the margin next to his other notation. An arrow beside the sloppily printed words steered directly to the word "Boston."
Shocked, Mark looked down at his fingers. It was as if someone else's hand had taken root at the end of his arm.
He had long grown used to the strange episodes that had been with him all his life. They were all easily identifiable, falling into the same neat categories. But this...
This was new.
Mark glanced back down at the paper.
Another word was written beside the others. It was this one that had caused him the most concern. The word was "death."
In the cool of Langley's basement, Mark felt a shiver of fear. Standing woodenly from his chair, he took the single doodle-filled sheet from the top of the slender Raffair file.
Somewhere in the CIA headquarters, there had to be a shredder that wasn't broken. Paper in hand, Mark Howard went off in search of it.
Chapter 11
Seymour Botz had just about had it with the constant talking. Not that he'd ever dare say so. Under ordinary circumstances, Seymour didn't have much of a spine, but when dealing with Louis DiGrotti, the timid accountant from Boston's Whitehall and Marx was without vertebrae, spinal cord and most of the musculature in his upper and lower back.
"I ain't seen one walrus since I got here," Louis DiGrotti snarled. Even with his tough Bronx accent, every word he uttered sounded like a whining complaint.
"Walrus?" Seymour asked, trying to sound interested.
"Yeah," DiGrotti nodded. "Them's the ones what got them big teeth in the front." He demonstrated with a pair of pencils from his desk. "I thought I seen one yesterday," he said, spitting out the pencils, "but it was just a dog."
It had been like this ever since Louis DiGrotti had shown up at Boston's Raffair office from New York. The big man-who, according to reputation, was adept at mangling much more than just the English language--knew Boston was north of his regular haunts. Geography not being one of his strong suits, DiGrotti had assumed it was somewhere roughly between the wilds of untamed Canada and Santa's magic workshop.
Even though he'd been in town for two weeks without getting run down by an advancing glacier, he still hadn't been disabused of his preconceived notions.
"I tooked a pitcher of it just in case," DiGrotti continued. On his desk was a small disposable camera. He had a drawerful. Louis was going to make a photo album of all the amazing animals he encountered while in exile in the Boston tundra.
"I guess it coulda been a walrus," he mused. "It was real small, though. Maybe it was a baby walrus. Or a cat."
Across the room at his own desk, Seymour did his best to tune out the other man's voice.
DiGrotti had already taken dozens of snapshots of a moose that was actually a shrub, a fire-hydrant penguin and a sleeping polar bear that was really a snow-covered Volvo.
"Youse know what really pisses me off?" DiGrotti said. "Dem reindeer. I been up every night till two since I got here and I ain't seen one. My neck's killin' me."
He rubbed at the back of his neck with a massive hand. Both hand and neck were covered with hair. So was the rest of his hulking body.
Back home in New York, he was known as Louis the Bear. Some said that he bathed in Rogaine. Of course, they had sense enough to say this behind his furry back. In addition to his physical resemblance to his animal namesake, Louis the Bear had a temper as great as the average grizzly and the strength to back it up.
Seymour Botz was aware enough of Louis DiGrotti's intimidating size to not test his temper. The accountant continued to work as the big man talked.
"I figured the reindeer would be the easy ones to find what with all that sky up there," Louis complained. "They must be hidin' out with all the walruses."
Frowning deeply, he picked up his camera. He was picking at the lens when the bell above the front door suddenly jingled to life.
Louis glanced up, a hopeful expression tugging at his five-o'clock shadow. But instead of a wayward reindeer, it was two men who had just entered Raffair's Boston offices. Face sagging once more, Louis tossed his camera to his desk.
"Damn Rudolphs," he growled.
The two men didn't seem to hear him. As they crossed to the desks, they continued an argument that had started outside.
"I'm not saying you can't listen to her," the young white guy was saying.
"You are absolutely not saying that," the old Chinaman interrupted icily.
"I'm just saying that the neighbors might appreciate it if you didn't turn it up so loud when you're not in the room. At least until I can replace the broken windows," Remo said.
"And who broke the windows?" Chiun replied frostily. "Besides, our neighbors are Vietnamese. If I can get used to the sounds of cats being strangled every night at dinnertime, they certainly cannot complain about the lovely Wylander."
"Wylander gives the cats a run for their money," Remo muttered. "Let's just try to keep the volume down, okay?"
"Absolutely not," Chiun sniffed. "Will you next muzzle the nightingale or whippoorwill? Where will your callous attacks on beauty end? I must draw a line in the sand."
At his desk, Seymour Botz eyed the new arrivals with concern. "Can I help you gentlemen with something?" he asked, his eyes bouncing from one man to the other.
"Just a sec," Remo said. "The only birds you can link to Wylander Jugg are the three hundred that give up their lives every week to fill her buckets of extra crispy."
Seymour cast a confused eye at Louis DiGrotti. The big man was reacting to the two visitors not with bemusement but with concern. Eyeing Remo and Chiun, he was slowly sliding a furry hand beneath his jacket.
Seymour shot to his feet as if his chair were on fire.
"You want stock!" he sang, hoping to cut off any violence. "I can give you a list of Boston brokers!"
Fumbling at the papers on his desk, he held a sheet out to Remo.