Although the three men in that room had seen the tape multiple times, the man they had beamed it to in New York was viewing it for the very first time. Apparently, he hadn't expected so grisly a scene.
"Oh, my God," Sol Sweet's nasal voice gasped over the speakerphone.
For several long seconds afterward, Anselmo Scubisci's lawyer could be heard retching over the crisp line.
Paul Petito couldn't blame him. He'd had the same reaction the first few times they'd watched the images that had been beamed into his Massachusetts home. Fingers stained black with old ink wiped sweat from his forehead.
"My God, he just-" Sweet's voice finally managed to say. "How did he do that?"
"I guess with them fingernails," Mikey Skunks suggested. "They're pretty long. Maybe he's got, I don't know, razors or something taped to the backs."
Sol Sweet seemed to not even hear the speculation. "This isn't-" he began. "I mean, it can't... Who are they?"
"I don't know, Mr. Sweet. Coupla guys, I guess. Hey, you want us to do 'em?"
Paul Petito's eyes went wide. He wheeled around. Mikey Skunks was calmly watching the screen. Along with the other New York import, he sat on the edge of Paul's bed, a bored look on his face.
There was a pause on the line as Sol Sweet collected his thoughts. "Yes," he ventured finally. "Now, let me think. I'm not sure I heard the last thing you said, but I think our mutual employer would want you to do what he'd do under these same circumstances." He didn't want to get roped into giving any direct orders. These days, there was no telling who might be listening in on private conversations.
Mikey Skunks scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "I'm pretty sure Don Anselmo would want us to kill them, Mr. Sweet," he suggested.
There was another gasp from the speaker, this one panicked. The line abruptly went dead.
"Yeah," Skunks nodded. "He wants us to kill them." Tongue jutting between his broad lips, he thumbed the VCR remote, rolling back the tape once more.
"So how do we find them?" Petito asked.
He sounded ill. This business at the Boston Raffair office was like some awful dream. Paul Petito was just a counterfeiter. He'd been roped into this for selfish reasons that had nothing to do with killing or being killed.
"We get a picture from here," Skunks said, waving at the image of Remo and Chiun on the screen. "Then I guess we circulate it, start asking around. Can you get their pictures from the TV?"
Petito nodded. "I know a guy who can do it digitally," he said weakly. As he spoke, he was vaguely aware of the front door opening.
Skunks heard the sound, too. "It's about time," he snarled. "We're in here!" he hollered.
By now, the tape had rolled back to the start. Remo and Chiun were standing at the desks in the Boston Raffair office when Paul Petito's bedroom door opened. A fourth man entered the room, lugging two big paper bags. The warm smells of greasy sausage and tomato sauce poured from the bags.
"What, we eating in here?" he asked with a scowl.
"Shh!" Skunks snapped at the new arrival. "Here," he said, pointing at the TV.
On the screen, Louis DiGrotti's head was just rolling off his neck.
"What the hell?" The new man gaped. "Was that the Bear?"
Skunks and the others nodded.
"How did he-?" The man with the bags froze midsentence.
On the screen, Remo had just stepped forward. He was plainly visible now, standing next to the Master of Sinanju.
Two shopping bags dropped to the worn carpet. White foam containers split open, spilling red sauce all over the floor. Flecks of red splattered on shoes, wall and bed.
As the others jumped angrily away from the mess, the latest arrival remained rooted in place. He continued to stare in shock at the satellite-fed taped image on the crystal-clear screen.
Remo's cruel face remained in sharp focus.
The man standing in the puddle of sauce shook his head in uncomprehending shock. In the center of his forehead, between his wide-open eyes, was a large purple bruise.
When he at last spoke, his voice was small. "Oh, shit, not him again," gasped Johnny "Books" Fungillo.
Chapter 13
"This is inexcusable," Harold Smith accused, struggling to control his anger. "How could you allow yourself to be filmed? I thought that you and Master Chiun could avoid cameras."
"Avoid, yes," Remo said aridly. "When we need to. But I didn't think we had to here. I figured this was just some other dumb-ass stop that didn't matter. Besides, I thought I could just snag the tape. How was I supposed to know it'd be hooked up to a satellite dish?"
When Smith exhaled, a rusty noise escaped like a wounded genie from the mouthpiece of the pay phone.
Chiun glanced up, his wrinkled face puckering with displeasure at the sound.
"Your enemies will quake in fear when they behold the terrifying wrath of the Master of Sinanju, Emperor Smith!" he called loudly. Dropping his voice low, he said to Remo, "Remind me to do something to aid his breathing the next time we see him. Those wheezing jackass brays are becoming depressing."
"Please tell Master Chiun that I am less concerned about my enemies than I am about the organization," Smith said tersely.
Remo cupped the phone. "Smitty says-"
"I heard," Chiun said thinly.
The old Korean stood near the curb a few feet away from Remo's sidewalk phone. Hands clasped behind his back, he turned his gaze back to the street where he'd been watching Boston traffic, leaving Remo and Smith to discuss their white nonsense.
"Anyway, I didn't know what I should do, Smitty," Remo said, "so I figured I'd better call."
"What you should have done was avoid the camera in the first place," Smith said tartly.
Remo's brow darkened. "Hey, I didn't want to schlepp off on this hare-brained assignment for Captain Diddlepants in the first place," he warned. "So take the snot somewhere else or Chiun and I are outta here."
Smith sighed again. "I'm sorry," he said. "I suppose recriminations are pointless anyway until we find out what it is we are dealing with." He gave a thoughtful hum. "You're certain it was a satellite dish?" he asked abruptly.
"Yeah, I think," Remo replied. "It was one of those cockamamie Frisbee-looking things."
"And you're sure there was no video equipment on the premises?"
"The cable went right from the camera to the dish. I might not be too good with gadgets, but I can follow a wire."
"Perhaps it is a private security company," Smith mused.
"Great," Remo said. "Gimme an address and I'll get the tape from them."
"One minute, please."
A few seconds of gentle tapping on his special keyboard, and the older man was back on the line. "This is strange," the CURE director said. "I checked to see if there was a local security firm in the employ of Raffair, Boston. When I found none, I checked nationally. There is no record of any security company anywhere doing business in any way at all with Raffair."
"So what?" Remo said. "Maybe they're just a little too trusting."
An impatient hiss came from the curb.
"They do not need hirelings, for they are guarded by their own reputation," the Master of Sinanju called over his shoulder. He was now studying the parked cars that lined the side of the road. A black Mercedes had caught his eye.
Smith had heard the old Asian's words. "It is strange for an operation that spans the country to not have at least some outside security," he agreed. "But if Raffair is inspiring fear, it must be purely by word of mouth, for there is no electronic record."
"Not word of mouth alone, Smitty," Remo disagreed. "If they've got a guy at every office like the one whose head Chiun lopped off here, most people'd have sense enough to tread lightly."
Smith's tone grew strained. "He decapitated him?" he asked wearily.
"Oh. Didn't I mention that?"