"Puppet President?" Remo said. The light dawned. "Is he saying they're going to kill the President?"
"Yes," Chiun replied, his tone flat.
Remo looked hard into the eyes of the weirdly smiling Mafia man. There was the passion of a zealot in those eyes. He was telling the truth.
"This is big," Remo said. "We better call Upstairs."
"I agree," Chiun said. "When the day comes to eliminate the pretender and install Emperor Smith to his rightful place on the throne of America, it will be my doing, no one else's."
He leaned his lips to the hit man's hairy ear. "You may await your wicked master in death," he whispered, so quietly that Remo failed to hear.
A sharpened talon pierced the heart. The Viaselli soldier clutched his chest and collapsed to the ground. "You ever meet someone you didn't kill?" Remo asked, skipping back to avoid the settling corpse.
"Do not tempt me," the Master of Sinanju menaced. He was staring down at the twitching body.
"Maybe we should have asked him more questions," Remo complained. "Like where, when and how, for instance. Did he seem doped up or something to you?"
Chiun's face was grave. "During the Second Idiocy of the Barbarian Nations, the Japanese trained men for suicide missions. Through certain techniques they were convinced they could bring glory to themselves and to their emperor."
"You're talking kamikazes, right?" Remo asked. "What do they have to do with this?"
"The Japanese method was crude. It was stolen from Sinanju by the first Emperor, Jimmu Tenno, 2600 years ago."
Remo frowned deeply. "Yeah? Well, I think Jimmy What's-his-name is off the hook. This guy's not Japanese. He's just some Mafia slug from Jersey."
Chiun said nothing. Remo could see that the old man was troubled.
"Look, I wouldn't sweat it," Remo said. "Two thousand years is a long time. Jimmy's long dead by now. Besides, I've seen you in action. Who in their right mind would want to mess with you?"
At this, Chiun turned a hazel eye to his pupil. "Someone who wishes to test the Master," he intoned quietly.
And though Remo pressed him to elaborate, the wizened Korean would say nothing more.
SMITH HAD QUIZZED Remo on the phone codes and gave him another ten-minute window to call in at eleven o'clock. Remo made the call from the junkyard's office trailer. Over the scrambled line he quickly explained the situation.
"Is Master Chiun certain?" Smith asked urgently. Remo glanced out the window. The old Korean stood out in the yard surrounded by a pile of heads. "You're kidding, right?" Remo asked. "Hell, I almost confessed. It sounds like the real deal to me."
"I will alert the Secret Service and the local authorities in Washington," Smith said.
"I don't think they'll cut it. Chiun's convinced that this is some sort of special attack that only he can stop. Don't ask me how he knows, but he says he's certain."
Up the coast in his darkened office in Folcroft sanitarium, the worry lines formed deep on Dr. Harold W. Smith's face. Smith had already lost one President on his watch. Granted, CURE was barely operational in those days, but it had eaten at him for the past decade. He could not bring himself to lose another so soon.
"This could be even more problematic," Smith said. "The remains of Senators Pierce and O'Day are to be flown to Washington for a public viewing at the Capitol tomorrow. It's going to be a big affair. Every major political figure in the nation is likely to attend."
"Get them to cancel it," Remo said.
"On what grounds?" Smith asked. "A possible assassination attempt? These days every public function attended by political figures comes at great risk for those attending. And we don't know for certain that's where the attack will come, if an attack even comes at all."
"Then let it go on. Just convince the President to skip it," Remo argued.
"The two deceased senators were members of the opposing political party," Smith explained. "I doubt he would risk not attending. However, I will convey my concerns."
"Viaselli's the one behind all this," Remo said, exhaling angry frustration. "It sounds like he's snapped his twig. Lemme go after him."
"He owns property around New York and around the nation," Smith explained. "He could be anywhere. By the time you find him, it might be too late to derail his plan."
"So we go with Chiun's option," Remo said. "Send us both down to protect the President." Smith's hand was tight on the blue contact phone. "It would be a terrible risk to send you to Washington," he said.
It was only a few months since Remo had been brought aboard. Even with the plastic surgery, this could be too great a gamble. And MacCleary had handled the recruitment. If Smith lost Remo now, he might be losing the only enforcement arm CURE would ever have. To make matters worse, this conversation had been far too specific. If the CURE line had been tapped, the agency could already be lost.
All of this and more did Smith consider in the briefest of moments. He made an abrupt decision. "Go," Smith ordered. "Get a flight to Washington National Airport. I'll have documents waiting for you when you arrive. Try to stop whatever this is. With luck you may be able to save him."
"And if we don't?" Remo asked.
"Have you seen the vice President?" Smith asked. "We've got to save the president," Remo said. "One thing, however," the CURE director said before his field operative could hang up. "If there is a hint that you might be compromised, let the assassins succeed." The words were difficult to get out. "Better to lose another chief executive than allow CURE to be exposed."
"Gotcha," Remo's voice said. He broke the connection.
The CURE director hung up the phone. With a world-weary sigh he swiveled in his chair.
Long Island Sound sparkled cold and black under the midnight moon. In the quiet of his heart as he watched the waves roll to shore, Harold Smith said a silent prayer for the nation he loved and for the souls of all the men who would lead it.
Chapter 25
Eight months ago Alphonso "Rail" Ravello wouldn't have believed it was possible. Eight months ago he was a Viaselli foot soldier, loyal only to his Family. Back then he wouldn't have dreamed of swearing allegiance to anyone but his beloved Don, let alone someone like Mr. Winch.
"Goddamned Chink," Alphonso growled when he first heard about the little Oriental who had wormed his way into the Viaselli organization. "He ain't tough. Gimme a crack at him. Kid in my neighborhood got shot down by some Vietcong. Gimme five minutes with that Winch and I'll show him what's what for shootin' down our boys."
Everyone was whispering about this Mr. Winch. They said he was unkillable. That he could disappear at will. They claimed he killed three men in the lobby of the Royal Plaza, fourteen floors down from where Don Carmine Viaselli ruled like a feudal lord over his personal fiefdom of Manhattan.
No matter what he thought of the rest, Rail Ravello absolutely did not believe that last one. Don Carmine would never let someone get away with whacking his own soldiers in his own building. If that part of the story was true, this Winch would have been put on ice so fast it would have made his head spin.
When he found out he was being loaned to the creepy little Oriental who had somehow gotten in good with his Don, Alphonso almost refused. But then he thought of what might happen to someone who refused a direct order of his beloved Don Carmine, the boss of all bosses. With reluctance Alphonso Ravello accepted the assignment.
He soon found that he wasn't the only one from the Viaselli organization who had drawn Mr. Winch duty. That first day a handful of others stood with him on the sticky concrete floor of that lost little warehouse in the swamps of New Jersey. Mosquitoes buzzed the humid air.