"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."
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.