As the phone rang, Smith checked his watch once more. It was nearly five past three. The ten-minute window on the secure line was rapidly closing.
The phone was picked up on the fourth ring. "This better be important," Remo growled.
"We don't have much time before this line goes dead," Smith said urgently. "When did all this take place?"
"I dunno," Remo said with a sigh. "Last night sometime. Why?"
Smith looked at the green screen of his raised computer monitor. According to all the reports he had been going through, Senator O'Day had been killed in the early morning. And Senator Pierce had died some time after noon today.
"Aunt Mildred wanted me to thank you for sending roses this Easter because chocolate gives her hives," Smith said.
There was an agonizing pause on the other end of the line. Smith watched the second hand of his watch slip past the thirty-second mark. The call window was closing.
"Okay," Remo said slowly, "I'm kind of out of it on all this spy stuff. Does that mean I come back there, or we meet near the paddle boats in Central Park?"
"Cousin Lulu plants pink begonias only after the last frost," Smith replied rapidly, eyes on his watch. Fifteen seconds left.
"Cousin who?" Remo asked.
"Just come back here," Smith blurted just as the phone cut off. He prayed Remo heard.
As he replaced the phone, Smith's alert eyes darted back to his computer screen.
The two senators had been killed today. Hours after Remo had put Felton and his disposal machine out of commission. That could only mean one thing. They were killed by someone else entirely. Someone independent of anything known to CURE.
There was another enforcer working for the Viaselli crime organization. Someone who was fast, efficient, stealthy and violently cruel.
The methods used to eliminate the three senators had been unorthodox in the extreme. A pattern like that didn't develop overnight. With Felton out of the picture, Smith would have to sift through thousands of bits of information collected by CURE's network of informants to see if there was someone else who could be responsible. Unfortunately, his computers were sluggish things. It would take days or even weeks of searching to uncover a list of potential culprits.
Girding himself for a long, arduous search, the CURE director stretched his hands for his keyboard. He stopped before his fingers even brushed the keys.
Inspiration suddenly struck. Leaning forward, Smith pressed a button on his desk intercom.
"Yes, Dr. Smith?" Miss Purvish's voice asked. "Please have an orderly go down to collect Mr. Park. I would like to see him in my office." Clicking off the intercom, he gripped the arms of his chair, twirling around to face the big picture window. Waves of foam rolled in off the sound and attacked the shore. A warped boat dock rose and fell with each successive wave.
The Masters of Sinanju were legendary dealers of death. The old man could have encyclopedic knowledge of assassins and assassination techniques. Perhaps Master Chiun could offer some insight into the mind of this particular killer.
Chapter 22
Don Carmine Viaselli placed the call from the small office off his apartment's master bedroom.
It was the private number, direct to Norman Felton. He expected either Felton or his butler to answer. They were the only ones who'd ever had access to that line before. He was surprised when a new voice answered.
"This is Viaselli," the New York Don said. "I just wanted to thank Norman for releasing my brother-in-law Tony."
"This is Carmine Viaselli, right?" asked the voice on the other end of the line.
"That's right. Who is this?"
"I'm an employee of Mr. Felton' s and I'm glad you called," said the unfamiliar voice. "Mr. Felton wanted to see you tonight. Something about a Maxwell."
Don Viaselli had heard about this Maxwell from Felton. The investigations of the past few months seemed to focus around this mysterious figure. A man neither Felton nor Viaselli had ever heard of. It was because of their mistrust over Maxwell that Norman Felton had taken Viaselli's brother-in-law hostage. An insurance policy. But now Tony was free and safe, and Carmine Viaselli was being asked to personally meet with Norman Felton about Maxwell.
"Where should I meet him?" Carmine asked, knowing full well there wasn't a chance in hell he'd ever go himself.
"He has a junkyard on Route 440," the voice on the phone replied. "It's the first right off Communipaw Avenue. He'll be there."
A setup. He knew it was a trap even as the stranger gave him the time. Ten o'clock.
Viaselli hung up the phone. He sat at his desk, his hands gripping his knees through the silk of his dressing gown, knuckles clenching white.
"Bastard is setting me up," he growled at the empty room. The low sound became a bellow. "I trusted him with my life and the goddamned son of a bitch is setting me up!"
A noise came from the next room. The soft rustle of fabric.
Viaselli looked up to see a portly woman in a black dress and white apron standing in the open door. She was clutching a stack of folded linen to her ample bosom.
It was his maid. She was always popping up where she wasn't wanted. If she hadn't been with him so long, he would've sent her to Norman Felton to eliminate ages ago. As usual, she wore an apologetic look on her broad face.
"Get outta here, Maria!" Viaselli bellowed. The woman scurried fearfully away.
Don Viaselli sank back in his chair. Felton had gone to the other side. Carmine Viaselli had made him a rich man as the Viaselli Family's main enforcer, and this was how he repaid the favor. It was the damned government. They had turned Carmine's most trusted man against him.
They were coming for him. They wouldn't stop. They wouldn't back off until they had him.
But Don Viaselli might have an edge. Mr. Winch. Felton might have blabbed to the government about the Oriental hit man, but they probably hadn't believed him. Who would? Some unstoppable gook killer who could appear and disappear at will. It was funny-farm material. But Winch was real, and he was on Don Viaselli's side. Problem was, at the moment Carmine Viaselli had no idea where his enforcer was.
"I need you back here now, Winch," he whispered to the shadows, his voice a sick murmur.
He was startled when the shadows answered. "What do you need?" said a reedy voice. Viaselli's head snapped up. Mr. Winch stood in shadow next to a window. His face was turned away from Don Carmine. Flat eyes watched the cars go by on 57th Street fourteen floors below.
Carmine Viaselli couldn't believe it. He had called for Winch and the hit man had appeared. Like a genie from a lamp.
"It's Felton," Viaselli said, face relaxing in lines of great relief. "He was supposed to be my white queen. My most powerful chess piece. And he's betrayed me." A smile cracked his sagging jowls. "But now I have you, thank God. You are my new white queen. I want you to find Felton and kill him before he can testify against me."
"Impossible," Mr. Winch said blandly.
Viaselli's brow dropped. "If it's money, I'll double it. I want the bastard dead, no matter what it costs."
"Then you need pay someone else, not me," Winch said. "Your Norman Felton is already dead." Viaselli carefully took hold of the edge of his desk. "Norman's dead? How do you know?"
Still at the window, Winch turned his head. His face was bland. "Who released your brother-in-law?"
"I don't know," Viaselli admitted. "Some guy. Tony wasn't good at giving a description, but he said the guy had eyes like a dead man. That was the one thing he remembered. That and the fact the guy was whistling 'Born Free' when he let him outta that closet at Norman's apartment."
"Whoever that man is, he is the one who killed your associate. There are probably others with him. You Americans seem to view everything as a team sport. Even assassination. No, your Felton is dead, along with his men. And I would not be concerned that whoever did this thing wants to put you in jail. Whoever is responsible will be coming to kill you, not arrest you."