Smith heard the soft sound of an engine running as he was reading the initial accounts of the fire at the Neighborhood Improvement Association in Manhattan. The sound came from the loading-dock area behind Folcroft.
Since it was too late for the regularly scheduled morning deliveries, Smith leaned over to the picture window. When he saw Remo and Chiun standing next to Remo's car, the CURE director's already displeased expression grew more sour.
Remo held up a finger, telling Smith to wait a minute. He shut off the engine, and he and Chiun disappeared from sight. Thirty seconds later, they were gliding into Smith's office.
"You did not tell me you burned down Scubisci's headquarters," Smith said unhappily as they closed the door.
"Tit for tat," Remo said levelly. He shook his head. "And that doesn't matter right now." He offered a thin smile. "Guess who's in the car?"
Smith frowned. He had seen no one in Remo's vehicle. "Who?" Smith asked warily. He leaned back again, craning to see the car near the loading dock.
"I don't know," Remo said. "And you can't see him 'cause he's in the trunk. But he is the first survivor of one of these boohawdle kamikaze attacks against me."
This finally piqued the CURE director's interest. The three men left the office and hurried downstairs. Remo snagged an empty gurney from the hallway and rolled it with them outside.
"He's out like a light," Remo said as he popped the trunk.
Smith removed the white button that was pinned to the man's jacket. "I have still had no luck with this," he said.
Remo had pulled off the man's ski mask. His hair was light, his skin dark. Dried blood formed a crusted patch where his forehead had met the steering wheel.
When Smith reached for the man's pockets, Remo stopped him. "Don't bother," he said. "I already checked. No ID."
"Let's get him inside," Smith said, his brow furrowed.
Remo dumped the unconscious man onto the gurney and wheeled him in through the loading-dock door.
Smith left the patient in the care of a Folcroft doctor in the security wing of the sanitarium with an order to call upstairs the instant the man came to.
Ten minutes later, they were back in Smith's office.
"Now, let me see the letter," Smith said as he locked the door.
Remo started reaching for his pocket, but the Master of Sinanju interrupted. "First things first," he said, staying Remo with a bony hand to his pupil's wrist. From the folds of his kimono, he produced the yellow paper on which Sol Sweet had scribbled the names of the men who'd burned their home. "Find these three," he commanded.
Smith took the paper. The handwriting was appalling. Still, he recognized John Fungillo's name. "Presumably, these are the men who destroyed your home?" he asked, raising a thin eyebrow.
"It would be wise to first check those establishments that trade in guns and gardening supplies," Chiun suggested authoritatively. "When Romans are not shooting at one another, they are growing those suspicious pomato things that haven't the decency to be either a fruit or a vegetable."
"Yes," Smith nodded. "This should be checked first." Paper in hand, he crossed to his desk. Remo couldn't hide his surprise.
"I know you're not doing it out of the goodness of your heart," he said as the CURE director settled into his chair. "And vengeance isn't your style, so what gives?"
"Simple," Smith said. "The men who burned your home saw the two of you on tape and were in your home. Either case makes them a security threat."
"I should have known," Remo nodded.
"Your enemies are our enemies, O Emperor," Chiun bowed. Just in case the madman was lying to placate him, he stayed at Smith's side as the CURE director worked.
"Sweet had the only other tape of us, by the way," Remo said. "It's toast. Along with most of Little Italy if they haven't figured out how to get the water back on." He sank cross-legged to the carpet.
The CURE director had already engaged the basement mainframes in a continuous search for John Fungillo. He hoped that these two new names would help him locate the three arsonists. But after twenty futile minutes, he was forced to admit defeat.
"These men have left no electronic path to follow, either," Smith said once he was through. "Like Fungillo, they each withdrew a large amount of cash from an ATM in Boston after Remo saw them fleeing your home. Obviously, they wish to remain in hiding-at least for now." He entered some simple commands into his computer. "We will have to put them aside for now. I have instructed the mainframes to alert me the moment any of them show themselves."
The Master of Sinanju's weathered face showed his disappointment. "Very well, Emperor," he said.
Smith turned his attention to Remo. "Now, the letter, please."
Still sitting on the floor, Remo fished in his pocket and removed the note he'd retrieved from Angela Scubisci.
"Probably just a fried-zucchini recipe," he commented, winging it to Smith. The envelope slid to a stop above Smith's keyboard.
Chiun helped the CURE director translate. When they were done minutes later, a frustrated expression had formed on Smith's gaunt face.
"There is nothing here," he complained.
"As I said," Chiun sniffed. He was still at Smith's elbow. "Unsigned platitudes from one Roman to another."
"Well, it is written to an Anselmo," Smith offered. "We can safely conclude that this is Anselmo Scubisci, but there is nothing specific that would point to the writer." As he stared at his monitor, the neat rows of letters reflected in the lenses of his glasses.
"This Begorra thing has been in deep cover for years," Remo said. "Makes sense they wouldn't sign a letter to the biggest crime boss in America."
"If it is in fact Camorra," Smith said. He looked once more at the envelope. "According to this, it was postmarked in Naples. Perhaps I can use the records from East Africa. If there is a crime figure from Naples wealthy enough to back Raffair, it's possible he was present for the events there three months ago. Remo, Master Chiun, I believe you've taken this as far as you can. I will complete this investigation from here."
He had no sooner said the words when the dedicated White House line rang. It was clear from the look on his face that Smith didn't want to have to take the call.
"Let it ring, Smitty," Remo suggested. "He's gone day after tomorrow anyway."
But Smith had already pulled the red phone from the drawer. With a look of thin disapproval at Remo, he answered it. "Yes, sir," he said tiredly.
"Just checking on your progress, Smith," the President of the United States said, forced affability in his voice.
"We have learned how Raffair can be a company that does not actually produce anything," the CURE director said. He quickly briefed the President on what Remo and Chiun had learned from Sol Sweet. "So it seems as if those ordinary American citizens who are the primary stockholders of Raffair have invested in a group intent on unraveling the very fabric of our own society," he concluded.
Once he was done, the President whistled softly. "Dang if he didn't know something was buggy about them right from the start," he said, impressed.
"Who?" Smith asked.
The President caught himself. "Oh, no one," he said vaguely. "Just some guy. So anyway, who's behind all this?"
"Well, as far as we can ascertain at this juncture, it is none other than Don Anselmo Scubisci."
"The Dandy Don?" the President said, a quick flicker of anger in his tone. "I thought he was strapped for cash. At least that's what he claimed when I hit him up for a campaign donation back in '96."
"Scubisci has apparently found a backer in a foreign crime syndicate called Camorra," Smith explained. "It's an odd arrangement, given the fact that the Mafia and Camorra are historic enemies. I am still uncertain why a prominent Mob figure would get into bed with a sworn enemy."