R. Affair. Our Affair. Or in Italian, Cosa Nostra. The Mafia was behind Raffair after all.
So brazen were they, the name appeared in the stock market listings of newspapers across the country and around the world. Organized crime was trading on Wall Street. With remarkable, frightening success.
This was too important to wait. If he was unable to contact Remo through familiar means, he would have to place a call to Western Union.
Smith grabbed up the contact phone. He was in the process of dialing when his office door sprang open.
Frozen in middial, Smith glanced up.
He was surprised to see Remo and Chiun stepping in from his secretary's office.
Both men appeared disheveled. The Master of Sinanju in particular was dotted with a few small streaks of soot. The old man wore a funereal expression. Beside his teacher, Remo managed a weak smile.
"Mind if we camp out here for a couple of nights, Smitty?" he asked tiredly.
Chapter 20
"What is wrong?" Smith asked as he cast a narrowed eye over the two men standing inside his closed office door. The CURE director calmly replaced the phone.
Remo shot a glance at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju's expression was stoical. "Something happened to our house."
"What?" Smith pressed.
Eyes downcast, Remo struggled to get the words out. "It sort of... burned down."
Alarm tightened Smith's stomach. "What? When?"
"A few hours ago," Remo exhaled. It all spilled out at once. "We were gonna go to a hotel, but then I figured you might want to talk to me, and I didn't feel like calling and waking you up in the middle of the night to tell you what happened so, well, here we are."
Remo looked shell-shocked. Smith couldn't remember ever seeing such a lost expression on the face of CURE's enforcement arm.
Smith leaned back in his chair, his fingertips gripping the edge of his desk as he attempted to sort through this alarming information. He willed himself calm.
"What caused the fire?" he asked.
The Master of Sinanju answered for Remo. "Vandals," Chiun supplied. The word was a soft lament. The old man hadn't taken his customary seat on Smith's floor. He stood quietly beside Remo, his face a wrinkled mask of sorrow.
"I saw a bunch of guys driving away," Remo said. "They must have tracked us with that videotape. They weren't those guys with the masks." His tone was vague.
"I was afraid of this," Smith said. "Still, they found you more easily than I would have thought. Given the other attacks against you, I hope this doesn't mean there is some greater risk to exposure at work here."
Remo shifted uncomfortably. "Look, it's the tape, okay?" he sighed, exhausted. "It's not some big conspiracy that threatens your precious security. Now, can we please give it a rest? We've just been through hell."
When he looked at Chiun, the old man didn't return his glance.
"I am sorry for your loss," Smith said, shaking his head, "but this could be of concern for CURE."
"It's not, okay?" Remo snapped, his cheeks flushing red. "We just need a place to stay, that's all."
There was something beneath his hot response.
Smith didn't press it. "Your old quarters are available-" he began.
Remo's face sank with tired relief. "I knew we could count on you, Smitty."
"-but I do not think it's wise for you to stay here," the CURE director finished.
Remo's face steeled. "Why the hell not?"
"You said yourself that you believe the men from Raffair, Boston found you. They could do so again."
"Using what? A freaking crystal ball?"
"By employing whatever means they used to find you the first time," the CURE director replied. "Perhaps they even followed you down from Massachusetts."
"We were not followed," Remo insisted. "Perhaps not. Nonetheless, I still don't believe it is a good idea for the two of you to stay here."
"Too bad," Remo said heatedly, "'cause we're staying."
"Remo, I retain your quarters for our own private security reasons. There have been times over the past decade that have required short stays at Folcroft. However, if your house is a lost cause-I am presuming it is?"
"It's a smoking foundation," Remo said bitterly. "In that event, you will want more permanent accommodations. I cannot supply them for you here."
"We just need two goddamn rooms," Remo said, cold anger swelling his level tone.
Smith offered a knowing nod. "I worry that you would think this a permanent solution to your problem."
Remo shook his head in stunned amazement. "You know something, Smith, you're all heart. The Quincy fire department is still hosing down the pile of glowing embers that used to be our home, and you're already accusing us of overstaying our welcome."
"I am being realistic," Smith said.
"You're being a heartless bastard," Remo accused. "And I've got news for you. We're staying, so you better get used to the idea." He nodded sharply to Chiun. "I'll start bringing your trunks in, Little Father."
Not giving Smith another chance for argument, he spun on his heel and flung open the office door. When Remo prowled out of the room, Chiun remained behind.
The old Asian's gaze was tired and forlorn. Standing on that threadbare rug, the tiny little man looked every day of his hundred-plus years.
Shifting in his chair, the CURE director cleared his throat. "I, er, trust you are all right, Master Chiun?"
The wispy thunderclouds above the Korean's ears rustled. "I am not, Emperor," he said in a soft voice rich with the sorrow of loss. "I have had something dear taken from me." Through all his grief was a whisper of underlying menace.
"I am sorry," Smith offered.
"It is not for you to apologize. That is for he who directed the Roman hordes to raze Castle Sinanju. Woe to him and his minions, for they will atone for this vile deed with their lifeblood."
Smith blinked sharply.
Romans. He had forgotten all about his Raffair-Cosa Nostra discovery.
"I believe you were right about Lawrence Fine's killers," he announced, refocusing attention on his computer. "There is every indication now that this is Mafia related."
"I will avenge myself against these sons of Rome," the Master of Sinanju said. Though the words were harsh, his tone was lifeless.
Smith had become more animated. Lost in cyberspace, it was as if he had already forgotten about the Asian's loss.
"Chiun, could you please send Remo in here when he is through with your luggage?" he asked as he typed.
Across the room, a long, plaintive exhalation of air escaped the tiny Korean's wrinkled lips. "I live to do your bidding, Emperor," he said. "For it is all that remains for me in this hateful land."
Without bothering to give even an informal bow, the Master of Sinanju padded from the office.
THE WHITE TIP of Sol Sweet's nervous tongue brushed across his dry lips. Cold sweat had begun to break out across his back as he listened to the voice on the phone.
"So that's the story, Mr. Sweet," Mikey Skunks finished gruffly. "It was real lucky Johnny Books knew the guy, or we wouldn'ta even found the place."
Sweet's hand tightened white around his phone. "Lucky?" he questioned, aghast. "Do you idiots have any idea what you've done?"
Mikey had told him about the search for Remo and Chiun, right up to the destruction of their house. Of course, he'd had to relate it in the vaguest possible terms, which was a struggle for a man who had a tendency to blurt out the most incriminating things with the innocence of sheer stupidity.
"Sure, Mr. Sweet," Mikey said, puzzled. "We torched their house."
"Stop it!" Sweet yelled. "And stop calling me by that name. I don't even know who that person is."
Closing his eyes, he gripped his entire forehead with one delicate hand. He was trying to think how to tell Don Scubisci about this disaster.