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.
"Okay," the lawyer said, his hand still clutched to his face. "Here's what you do. Don't go back to the office. Don't go back to your friend's house to get your things. Go to the bank, get as much cash as you can. You don't want to leave any kind of traceable trail for a month. Just come back home and lay lower than you've ever laid low before."
"Sure thing, Mr., uh, Mr...."
"Just come back here," Sweet snapped. "And bring those other two morons with you."
"Okay," Mikey Skunks offered, struggling to mask the confusion in his voice. "But you heard me before when I told you that we didn't kill those two guys, right?"
Fumbling in a dead panic, Sol Sweet slammed down the phone as if it were a living thing. Sitting in his soft leather chair, he could feel his heart thudding in his chest. A congenital heart murmur gave him a fluttering double-beat at moments of high anxiety. Right now it was flapping like a hummingbird.
They'd gotten Paul Petito. Skunks said that the street was filled with cops when they'd tried to go back there.
Time for damage control. They'd shut the Boston office for now. Thanks to Internet trading, the satellite offices were redundant anyway. Ideally, they would move entirely into the electronic realm within the next five years. But there was a monkey wrench thrown into the whole plan now.
Those two men who had entered the picture had first confused and now threatened everything. Including Sol Sweet's life if Don Scubisci was found to be in a less than forgiving mood. And now the idiot hirelings had made matters worse by antagonizing the two men instead of killing them.
Breathing deeply to calm his skipping heart, Sol opened his squeezed-shut eyes.
Don Anselmo Scubisci's newly remodeled office swirled around him in deep mahogany and fresh white paint. One piece of furniture in particular caught Sol's eye.
Fumbling up out of his chair, Sol held his throbbing chest as he stumbled over to the well-stocked bar.
REMO HAULED the Master of Sinanju's trunks from his car to their Folcroft quarters.
Not all of Chiun's luggage had fit in Remo's car. They had been forced to leave some of the trunks in a rented hotel room up in Massachusetts.
"You want it with the rest, Little Father?" Remo asked as he carted the fourth and final trunk into the Master of Sinanju's room.
"Wherever you leave it does not matter," Chiun answered morosely.
The old Korean sat in the middle of the floor, his despondent eyes trained on the painted cinder-block wall. He hadn't even chosen the trunks his pupil was bringing into the room. Before they'd left Quincy, he'd allowed Remo to pick four at random.
Remo put the fourth trunk with the others. They seemed lost without the rest.
"I'll get the other ten shipped down quick as I can," Remo promised.
Chiun's smile was wan. "You are a good son, Remo," he said.
Clenching his jaw, Remo cast his eyes downward. "Yeah," he said guiltily. "You want anything? Tea, maybe?"
"I am not thirsty," the Master of Sinanju. "Besides, I told you that Smith wishes to see you."
Remo's expression darkened. "Screw Smith. The bastard was about to turn us out in the snow. You're more important than anything he has to say." Chiun accepted his pupil's warm tone. "Thank you, Remo," he said. Reaching up, he patted the younger man's hand. "But your presence is not balm enough for me this day. Go, serve your emperor." Chiun cast an eye around the room. "This is a familiar environment."
"Okay," Remo said. "I guess." At the bedroom door, he paused. He couldn't believe what he was about to say. "You want me to run out and pick you up some replacement country CDs?" he offered.
When the fire struck, Chiun's entire collection had been up in his meditation tower.
The old man shook his aged head. "No," he answered. "There will by no joy until vengeance is served. Smith was babbling when I left. I believe he is using his oracles to locate he who commands the Romans who destroyed Castle Sinanju."