Chiun's meditation room. For ten years, he had welcomed the morning sun in the former bell tower. Crowds had gathered along the street. Men and women in nightclothes gawked and pointed.
Through it all, Remo and Chiun stood, silently watching.
Remo had always insisted that he hated that building. When it became their home, it had been Chiun's doing, not his. But as the old structure collapsed in on itself, he felt as if a piece of him were dying, as well.
He glanced down at the Master of Sinanju. Chiun said nothing. Chin jutting firmly in the air, he viewed the nightmarish scene through damp hazel eyes.
He seemed so old and frail. So lost.
Remo put a gentle arm around Chiun's shoulders. Before both Masters of Sinanju, the fire raged, uncontrolled; consuming utterly the place that they called home. And as the spit of sparks took flight in the cold night sky like January fireflies, the hellish conflagration was reflected in the single salty tear that rolled down the old Korean's weathered cheek.
Chapter 18
The morning breeze that blew in from the Tyrrhenian Sea hinted at a mild Naples winter's day.
It was a good wind. Not warm, but certainly not cold. It came from the east. From the direction of Corsica and Sardinia. Intolerable was the breeze from farther south; from hated Sicily.
That air was always foul. Even if he were blindfolded and lost in the vineyards, the old man sitting on the tidy stone patio, wrapped in a thick wool sweater, would have been able to know if he was smelling that vile Sicilian air.
The island of Sicily rested like a mound of shit at the toe of Italy's boot. Its people were filthy to a man. Its women had no virtue. Its children were cradle-bred thieves. When that wind blew, he would hide inside like the sons of Moses waiting for the Angel of Death to pass by.
But this was not Sicilian air, thank God. It was good, fresh air from far north of that hated den of cutthroats and brigands.
The old man took a deep, cleansing breath. White early-morning sunlight showered brilliantly over the vines below his terrace. Men already worked amid the tidy rows of dormant plants. Pruning and tying the vines in preparation for the next growing season.
Although the big house behind him cast a gloomy shade over the patio, he still wore sunglasses. The sun would peek around the house by nine, and at his age he liked to be prepared. For anything.
Through tinted lenses, he looked up at the man who had just arrived on his glass-enclosed terrace. "Nothing yet?" the old man asked.
"Silence so far," the younger man replied apologetically. He was dressed for the Italian winter, a black woolen cardigan beneath his thin jacket.
The old man frowned thoughtfully.
A glass of red Aglianico sat on the wrought iron table before him, pressed from his own vineyards. Picking up the glass by the stem, he took a thoughtful sip.
"Perhaps we were too clever," he said, replacing the wine to the table. It touched the metal with a click.
"Don't worry, sir," the younger man said. "It's only been a few days since New Jersey. Less time since Cuba. Someone has to recognize it soon."
The old man smiled wistfully, exposing a row of corn-yellow teeth.
"I am impatient, I know. It has been a long time. I suppose a few more days will do no more harm than the last eighty years. Avanti," he said, shooing the man away.
Alone once more, he took another sip of wine. The wine was as disappointing as the news from America.
He'd been a young man during World War II, back when the tanks of the Allies had rolled into Italy to crush the hated Il Duce once and for all. The old man had met many Americans then. Most had seemed quite clever.
They had returned home from their great victory in Europe only to raise dullards for children.
He had been certain they would have figured it out by now. It really wasn't even that clever. In fact, it had been designed to be obvious.
Below him in the vineyards, men continued to snip and tie.
The gently blowing breeze died down. The death of the wind brought fresh warmth to the Campania region.
It was going to be a warm day. Maybe it would break a winter record. Pondering the weather, the old man reached for his crystal wineglass.
Chapter 19
For some reason, Remo had left his phone off the hook. Smith had called steadily until one o'clock in the morning. After that he had given up.
Bone tired, the CURE director had dragged himself home for a few hours of sleep. By six the following morning, he was back in his office.
With practiced fingers, Smith located the recessed switch beneath the edge of his desk. The light from his buried computer screen swelled within the black depths of the desk.
The preamble to the United States Constitution appeared on the start-up screen. As he did every morning, Smith read the words carefully before getting to work.
He pulled up the Raffair file.
The information on Sol Sweet was there. Graduate of Harvard. Attorney in New York. One notable client.
Smith frowned as he read the client's name. He had hoped to never see it again.
Scubisci.
CURE had had several run-ins with the New York crime family in the past. Most notably with the deceased patriarch, Don Pietro. Remo had eliminated the old Don a decade ago. After his death, his son had taken control of the Family's interests. But Anselmo Scubisci was in prison now. If it was he who was running Raffair, he was doing so while a guest of the federal prison system.
They would know more once Remo had interrogated Sweet.
Smith picked up the blue contact phone. Without looking at the old-fashioned dial, he quickly entered Remo's number.
Still busy.
Frowning, Smith replaced the phone.
The Master of Sinanju might have been disturbed by a telemarketer. Sometimes when this happened, he took out his anger on every phone in their condo.
It still might just be off the hook. Smith decided to try back in a little while. If it was still busy, he would have to consider alternate ways to get in touch with Remo.
He turned his attention back to his computer screen.
Raffair.
Smith looked at the word with fresh eyes.
The dawning of a new day had not changed the feeling that there was something to the word itself. On some unknown level, it was still somehow familiar to him.