Smith pursed his lips. "I know of him," he said slowly.
The name had turned up in his own research. Though curious as to how the President of the United States would know of a man like Petito, the CURE director held his tongue.
"Yeah, I got a source that says he's linked to Raffair. Might be a good idea to check him out. Move up the chain of command from there." The President's voice suddenly grew more cheerful. "Here, kitty-kitty," he said off the phone.
Smith assumed that the presidential cat had just wandered into the Lincoln Bedroom. A moment later, he heard the sound of contented purring close to the phone.
"At least someone in this town hasn't abandoned me," the President said warmly.
"Mr. President, I'm not sure how much more I can do in this matter," Smith said, trying to steer the chief executive back to the topic at hand. "However, I will see what can be done with Mr. Petito."
"Thanks, Smith," the President said, the warmth still lingering in his tone. "You know, man's best friend ain't a dog," he added knowingly. "Those fickle fleabags'll turn on you faster than a drunken ex-press secretary. Cats are the pets that are the real loyal ones. Nice pussy." This last phrase was uttered lovingly off the phone.
As soon as the President had said it, there came a violent hissing from nearby. It was followed by a yelp of pain from the chief executive.
"Dammit!" the President snapped into the receiver. "She even had the damn cat brainwashed for voice commands."
Smith sat up straighter in his chair. "Is everything all right, Mr. President?" he asked, concerned.
"No," the President said sourly. "Who knew you could have a cat reclawed? Just keep looking into that stuff, Smith. I've gotta go find some Bactine." With a final angry huff, the chief executive severed the connection.
Smith slowly replaced the red phone. The frown on his gaunt face had only deepened during their conversation.
While Presidents often informed Smith of wrong-doing, in the nearly forty-year history of CURE, not one chief executive had ever been interested in something so small.
A counterfeiter. Why would the commander in chief be concerned with something so trivial? Smith glanced down at his computer screen. The word "Raffair" blinked up from the sinister depths of his desk.
Wondering what could be going through the President's mind, Smith stretched a hand for the blue contact phone.
FOR THE SECOND MORNING in a row, Remo's peace was shattered by the full-throated yapping of Wylander Jugg. Rather than get into another argument, he'd ducked outside, ignoring the nasty looks given him by two women pushing baby carriages down the sidewalk in front of Castle Sinanju. He spent the bulk of the day hiding out at the dollar movie theater, returning home as the setting sun was just beginning to touch the tops of the nearest buildings.
The condominium complex was brightly lit and blessedly silent. As he walked inside, the Master of Sinanju was floating down the main staircase.
"Why's it so quiet in here?" Remo asked. "Wylander take eating breaks in midrecord? Not that I think that'd be very quiet."
"I am resting my ears," Chiun said. "A handful of flowers is a bouquet-a field is hay fever."
He turned abruptly away from his pupil, rounding the base of the stairway. Remo trailed the old Korean down the hallway to the kitchen.
"A guy I never met before just stopped me outside to ask us to keep it down in here. His newborn's got colic, and Wylander's keeping her awake."
"Impossible," Chiun sniffed. "If anything, she should be lulled to sleep. Tell this whoever-he-is that his disagreeable offspring will only cause some man grief later in life. He should drown her in Quincy Bay at once and spare her poor future husband."
In the kitchen, Chiun began poking through the cupboards. He crinkled his nose in displeasure. "Good way to make friends," Remo groused, leaning against the counter.
"I do not need friends. I have you."
Although he smelled a scam a mile away, Remo still felt his heart lighten. "Okay, what do you want?"
"Duck," the old man answered. "Preferably ruddy duck."
"Aw, c'mon, Chiun," Remo said, the beginnings of a smile evaporating. "You've got a hundred fish tanks in the cellar."
"I do not feel like fish."
"Okay." Remo sighed, pushing away from the counter. "There's duck in the freezer."
The Master of Sinanju shook his head. "No," he insisted. "You thaw it improperly. I want fresh duck."
"Frozen or fresh tastes the same to me."
"Your barbarian's palate goes well with your Philistine's ears," Chiun droned. "We will go out to eat."
"But I've been out all day," Remo complained. "I had to put up with two hours' worth of that wet-eyed moping that Tom Hanks calls acting, not to mention some sci-fi mess with Jann Revolta in dreadlocks that made me want to start a freaking crusade against that dipwaddle Hollywood cult of his. Can't we just spend a quiet stress quiet-night at home?"
Chiun waited until he was finished. The old Asian wore a deeply thoughtful expression. "I wonder if the restaurant will have ruddy duck?" he mused. "Oh, well. Whatever the house duck is will suffice."
Remo opened his mouth to speak when the phone squawked abruptly to life.
"Oh, and Smith called," the Master of Sinanju offered absently as his pupil reached for the telephone.
"Hello," Remo said into the receiver as he gave the old Asian a peeved glance.
"Remo, it is about time." Smith sounded more agitated than normal. "I have tried to call a dozen times today."
"I spent the afternoon in exile," Remo said aridly. "What's up? You find out where our faces got beamed?"
"Not yet," Smith replied. "The biggest impediment to that search is the easy acquisition of such technology by private individuals. One need no longer hire a service to set up a system like the one you encountered."
"Okay, so we go to question B. What about the guys who attacked me?"
"Nothing on that front, either, I'm afraid," Smith said. "But there is something else you can look into. The man who purchased the building you were filmed in lives near you. Perhaps he can offer a lead, if not to Raffair itself at least to where the satellite image was directed."
Remo scrunched up his face. "I thought we were gonna give the small fries a rest until we could go after the big kahuna."
"There are no small matters where you are concerned, O Emperor," Chiun called. "For anything that gives your soul a moment's distress is an enemy of tranquillity that must be dealt with harshly by your humble servants. Point us to he who vexes your thoughts, and Sinanju will make him rue the day he had the temerity to trouble your sweet mind."
Remo cupped the phone. "You're still angling to go out to eat," he accused.
Chiun's face was bland. "We are going out," he said firmly. "As long as we are, we might as well humor His Royal Grayness. Plus I am tired of his phone calls disturbing my peace every five minutes."
Frowning, Remo took his hand off the phone. "Okay," he sighed. "Looks like we're going out. Who is this guy?"
Smith gave him the name and address of Paul Petito. Remo jotted it down on a pad next to the phone.
"Got it," he said once the CURE director was through. "Although I still don't know why we're wasting our time with all this. I was sure you'd get tired of this whole 'let the President leave with a smile on his face' thing after last night's fiasco. Plus aren't there any maniacs with weather machines or neo-Nazis bent on world conquest out there yet?"
"Yes, it is small," Smith admitted with a tired sigh. "But Petito is a counterfeiter. According to my information, it is likely he has started up his operation again since his release from prison."
"Like I said," Remo insisted. "You're sending the A-Team out after something even the FBI could handle." He quickly rethought his own words. "Well, maybe not the FBI. But the Cub Scouts or Brownies'd probably be up for it."