Smith was silent for a long moment.
In the privacy of his Folcroft office, the CURE director was settled back in his chair, his weary eyes closed on the darkening room.
How could he explain to Remo the reverence he felt for America and its institutions? Even the poor, beleaguered presidency. Although possessed with some latent patriotism, CURE's enforcement arm had never had very high regard for most politicians. He disdained Presidents in general, this current one in particular. Yet Smith was of a different generation, a dying breed. And if the President of the United States-any President-begged a reasonable favor of Harold W. Smith, the rock-ribbed New Englander with the heart of a patriot felt it his duty to honor that request.
"Please, Remo," Smith said at last. His tart voice was strained.
In the kitchen of his condo, Remo frowned at the effort in the old man's voice. It held an intense world-weariness.
Remo paused but a moment.
"Okay, Smitty," he said softly. "But let's get this straight. I'm doing this for you. No one else." Without waiting for a reply, he slipped the receiver back into its cradle. His expression was darkly thoughtful as he turned to the Master of Sinanju.
"You ready to roll?" he asked.
"One moment," the wizened Asian commanded. Kimono sleeves flapping, Chiun flounced from the room. He returned a moment later, a small plastic case gripped tightly in one bony hand.
"What's that?" Remo asked warily. By his tone, it was clear he already had his suspicions.
"Oh, merely something to make our ride more enjoyable," the Master of Sinanju replied airily.
"Bring the keys. The taping device in the car will not work without them."
He bounded out the kitchen door.
"Give me strength," Remo muttered softly. Praying for some mechanical defect in his leased car's tape player, Remo followed Chiun outside.
UNFORTUNATELY FOR REMO, the car stereo system worked perfectly. The speakers vibrated to Wylander's twangy voice as they drove out of the big parking lot next to the old converted church.
On their way out of town, they passed a slow-moving car driving in the opposite direction. Remo was so distracted by Wylander that he didn't notice a familiar face in the back seat. A black-and-purple bruise decorated a spot dead center in the man's forehead.
In the other car, the worried eyes of Johnny "Books" Fungillo scanned sidewalk and building. So focused was he on the street that he failed to see Remo pass by.
Both cars separated and slowly withdrew, fading to invisibility in the frosty January night air.
Chapter 15
Paul Petito was an artist in a world of heathens. This troubling thought weighed on him even as he inspected the first bills to run off his newest press. Petito had a jeweler's loupe jammed into one eye. The bills were clipped to three clotheslines in his basement workshop. A fluorescent light glared down over them.
The crisp lines of Alexander Hamilton's face looked back at him in magnified perfection. Hair, eyes, girlish smile-even the shadow beneath the nose. All perfect.
Flashing his own satisfied smile, Petito dropped the loupe into the pocket of his ink-stained smock. The bills had been run through the drier before he'd hung them up, so there was no danger of smearing the ink. With grubby fingers, he plucked them one at a time, depositing them in a plastic laundry basket. Once they were all harvested, he brought them over to the chimney. Grabbing them by the handful, he stuffed them past the small flue door at the chimney's base. They formed a crumpled bluish pile.
Petito took a book of matches he'd filched from a restaurant the night before and set the bills alight. The chimney grate was a fine wire mesh. Even if a wispy, incriminating ember made it to the top, it wouldn't escape into the neighborhood. When the flames had consumed the bills completely, he closed the chimney door.
These first ones had only been a test. He hadn't even tried to get the color right yet, let alone the paper.
As he pulled himself to his feet, Paul Petito wished briefly for it to be as easy for him in this modern age as it had been for the counterfeiters of old. Twenty years ago, it was a cakewalk. Now everything was tougher.
The Federal Reserve had begun to issue new multicolored bills with larger pictures, watermarks, special paper grains and identifying emblems visible only under certain light.
For Paul Petito, government meddling had become an almost unbearable nuisance. To make matters worse, the new wave of funny-money manufacturers working with computers and scanners were crowding the traditionalists off the field.
Feeling the pressure when he'd gotten out of prison two months before, Paul had approached several local crime figures in the hope of striking up a business partnership. Unfortunately, everyone was either tapped out, locked away or not even interested. Without someone to pony up the start-up costs, Petito was out of luck. Then strange fortune struck.
One afternoon as he was lying on his elderly mother's plaid sofa watching Court TV, the old rotary phone rang.
"Mr. Petito?" the voice on the phone had asked. "You don't know me, but I represent a party who is interested in helping you with the business difficulties you're having."
He spoke in a patronizing nasal whine, overpronouncing words in a vain attempt to smooth his New York accent.
Paul picked some gunk from his ear as he talked. "Pal, the only difficulty I got is that I don't have a business."
"And I understand it's not from lack of trying." The caller was cool and efficient and wasted no time in telling Paul that his employer would gladly send him the cash he'd need to get his presses rolling. There was only one small favor he would have to do in return.
"I'll do anything short of murder," Petito enthused.
"Please don't say such things," the man he would come to know as Mr. Sweet said "Not even in jest. Ever. As for the rest, I'll be in touch."
Sweet was true to his word. Within two days, the money was sent to Paul. Per his instructions, he used some of it to buy the Boston Raffair building; the balance he kept. The arrangement was perfect except for one thing. The people Mr. Sweet sent up from New York to guard his building.
From the start, they were always hovering around. They hadn't left him alone in weeks. Until last night. Paul didn't know whether or not he should be relieved for those two men from the surveillance tape. Because of them, Sweet's thugs had finally left him to work in peace.
They had stopped back briefly to say they'd tracked the young one as far as Quincy. A cabbie who'd driven him from the airport wasn't quite sure where exactly he'd dropped his fare. Somewhere near a church.
Johnny Fungillo had been nervous that evening when they'd gone back out. He kept warning the others that the young one was something special even as he brushed at his bruised forehead with his shaking fingertips.
Petito didn't need to be told that they were dangerous. He'd seen with his own eyes what the old one had done to Bear DiGrotti. As he worked, Paul tried to put all of the unpleasantness out of his mind.
There were still a few of the blue-tinged bills lying on a table near his photocopying machine. He had only just begun to sweep them up when he heard the noise. A popping crack of wood followed by the scattering tinkle of metal.
It had come from upstairs.
For Paul Petito, the panic grabbed hold at once. Someone had just broken down his door.
The bills were still clutched in his hands. No time to burn them. He looked left, then right, then down. Before he even knew what he was doing, he did the first thing that his frightened instinct commanded.
Hands flashing in desperation, he began stuffing the bills into his mouth. He was chewing frantically even as the cellar door opened. He almost choked when he saw who came floating down the stairs.