There was a puzzle in himself. Something that he now realized he'd always known about but had pushed aside. His life was larger than he understood.
It was odd that this sense should strike him now. The mere knowledge that there was some secret force prowling across America automatically made him a security risk to that force. It was as if he were beginning to understand something important about himself at the same time that his life was at most risk.
But the picture was only half-formed. He couldn't bear the thought that he might never know who he truly was or what he was destined to become. Yet the same unseen thing that threatened him-Smith and his agents-was the thing that had brought him to this crossroads.
Fear, adrenaline, a risk to his very life. All combined were firing synapses in a brain that now seemed to have been dormant for the past twenty-nine years.
The mug that sat next to his mousepad was full. He'd poured the coffee hours ago, thinking he'd need the caffeine after so little sleep. He hadn't drunk a sip.
Mark was searching the news Web sites. Every once in a while, he'd do a keyword search for "Raffair," as well as a few other buzzwords like "crime," "bodies," "dead" and "Mafia." For some reason, early on his fingers had gone on automatic and typed the word "destroyer." Mark didn't know why, yet the feeling told him it was right. He left it in the search.
Nothing had happened since Raffair's world headquarters in New York was burned down. The past several hours had been chillingly quiet.
He ordinarily would have felt cramped or fatigued sitting so long at his computer, but for some reason he wasn't feeling any discomfort this day. It was as if he were born to sit in a chair and stare at a monitor. Even his eyes were alert. All this was good for Mark, for he dared not leave his computer for a minute.
Studying the screen, he used his mouse to highlight a news article from the online Boston Blade. A blaze in Quincy had destroyed a condominium complex. Although the building had been occupied, the tenants had vanished. It was being said that the two men who lived there had to have been squatters, for there was no record of ownership. It was apparently a surprise to city officials that the place was abandoned property.
A boring little item, and Mark had no idea why it should interest him. Yet he found himself clicking and saving it to his hard drive.
As he did so, a muted electronic beep issued from his computer. His mailbox popped open.
He'd subscribed to a couple of news services earlier in the day, so he quickly clicked on the mailbox icon.
One of the services had flagged a report out of Chicago. When he read the simple lines of text, his mouth went dry.
There had been another multiple homicide at a Raffair office, this one on East Sixteenth and Clark in Chicago.
Mark read this latest report with a growing combination of dread and disbelief.
According to the Chicago police report, four men were confirmed dead. In a surrealistic twist, one of them appeared to have been fed through an office paper shredder. Police theorized that it had taken the killers hours to perform this gruesome act, and that some special massive crushing implement had to have been employed first to flatten the body. Yet there were no marks from such a tool on the floor and no evidence of the residue that the crushed body would have made.
Alone in his apartment, Mark closed his eyes. Bodies were piling up all around the country, and they could all be traced to one source. Mark Howard.
He took a steeling breath. Opening his eyes, he attacked his keyboard. Fingers typing rapidly, he called up the list of Raffair offices and staff around the country. The same list he'd given the President. He looked down at the first electronic page.
Boston, New York and Chicago were gone. They weren't taking them out alphabetically. Geography was dictating their path. L.A. would most likely be last. It sat alone on the West Coast. That left only a handful of others.
Mark scanned the list, much shorter now than it had been twenty-four hours ago.
New Orleans and Miami. They'd pick off the Houston office on their way west.
Howard took several minutes to commit the remaining addresses to memory. When he was through, he deleted all files concerning Raffair from his system.
Shutting down his computer, Mark stood. No pain in his back or legs. No pain at all.
In his last days in office, the President had exposed Mark to something deeply dangerous. He could either hide and hope it all blew over or confront whatever mystery force was out there.
Fear told him to stay put, but the feeling told him to go. His subconscious had invaded his conscious mind and it was screaming one word to him, over and over and over again.
Destiny.
He'd get his plane tickets at the airport. Pulling open his top desk drawer, Mark took out something he'd bought after joining the CIA. Something he thought he'd never use.
Mark turned from the desk.
His overnight bag was in the hall closet. Gun clutched tightly in his hand, he went to collect it.
Chapter 27
The Master of Sinanju had said next to nothing on the flight from New York to Chicago. He'd remained reticent as he and Remo dismantled Chicago's Raffair office, as well as its occupants. When they settled into their seats on the 727 out of Chicago-O'Hare, it didn't appear as if the old man had any intention of breaking his silence.
Chiun's hazel eyes were turned away from his pupil, set firmly on the plane's left wing, lest it have the audacity to drop off during takeoff with him aboard. Only once they were at a safe cruising altitude did he turn his attention inside. Still, he said not a word.
Remo wouldn't be goaded. If the old crank was giving him the silent treatment, he'd give it right back to him. No, siree, not a peep. Two could play at that game. He'd keep his mouth shut for ten damn years if he had to. He would absolutely not be the first one to snap. No way in hell-his lips were sealed, locked and the key had been tossed out the pressurized door at thirty-five thousand feet.
He folded his arms firmly across his chest and screwed his lips shut tight. Beside him, Chiun was oblivious to his decision. The old man remained lost in private thoughts.
Remo decided it was no good giving someone the silent treatment unless they knew they were being given the silent treatment.
"I'm not talking to you, either," he announced without turning his head.
Chiun didn't reply.
There was a sudden raucous sound from the rear of the plane. Someone had smuggled on a boom box. They'd just started playing a CD with a heavy Latin beat. A group of rowdy passengers cheered the sound.
"Just so you know," Remo continued. "I don't think I deserve it from you, 'cause I'm going through exactly what you're going through, and it's not my fault about our house no matter what you think, and I really don't think it's fair that you're taking it out on me. So if you're not talking to me, I'm not talking to you. How do you like them apples?" He hugged his arms further into himself.
In the back, the revelry had become more focused. The cheering turned to singing and clapping. A conga line danced up the aisle next to Remo, led by the copilot. The man's uniform shirt was open to his navel, revealing hairy chest and belly. His head and arms swayed with the music as he danced by, a group of college-age girls attached hands to hips behind him.
"And my final word on all this before I go mute, just so you know, is that I think it's pretty low of you," Remo said as the last of the line sashayed by. "So there. That's that. See you in the funny papers. I'll be the one without the mouth. Like that freak with the lightbulb head. Henry."
And having spoken his final, final word, he jammed his angry hands even deeper into his armpits.
For a few long seconds, the only sound aboard the plane was the blaring music and popping hiss of smuggled six-packs.
Remo was about to offer another last word when a squeaky voice chimed in beside him. He was stunned by what was said.
"I am sorry, Remo," the Master of Sinanju intoned gently.
He couldn't remember the old Korean ever uttering those words before. Remo turned to his teacher. The old man was looking over at him, a hint of sad understanding in his eyes.
Remo's own eyes narrowed in suspicion. "If this is a trick to get me to talk, it won't work. I'm as mute as a monk."
Chiun shook his aged head. "Do not offer me such false promises," he warned. "It is unfair to taunt one of my advanced years. Besides, you were already struck dumb years ago."
There was no edge to his tone. Despite the shots, he seemed somber. And most important of all, he was talking again.