Warren Murphy - Syndication Rites

In the space of this one small meeting, the entire world had collapsed and coalesced into an unrecognizable shape. Numbly, Mark rose from his chair and walked to the door.

Smith, the background check, the President. It was all tied in. Something was very definitely going on. And whatever it was was huge beyond the measure of it.

Mark Howard could feel it.

THE PRESIDENT DID his best to ignore the packing crates stacked in the hallways of the West Wing. In the main mansion, he took the private elevator, getting out at the family quarters.

He closed his eyes in strained patience when he heard the familiar low rumble to his right.

Down the hall, the President's Labrador retriever exposed its teeth, growling menacingly as he passed. Scraps of shiny paper were spread on the floor around its paws.

His wife had sent the dog for some kind of special obedience training while the chief executive was in Europe the previous year. When the President got back home, the dog's attitude had been completely changed. It now growled and snapped at him whenever he came near. Every White House picture of the current President became a chew toy. He tried to ask his wife what she'd done to the animal, but she only smiled that emasculating smile of hers and flew off for another listening tour of New York.

He left the dog to chew on the state photograph of himself and Israel's Prime Minister Barak. Rounded shoulders sagging, he ducked into the Lincoln Bedroom.

The cherry-red telephone was in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. In another few days, he'd be showing the phone to his successor.

Sitting on the edge of the high bed, the President lifted the receiver. The phone had no dial. It didn't need one. Before it could ring twice, the call was answered.

"Yes, Mr. President?"

Efficient, as usual. The President scowled at the thought of the tart-voiced man on the other end of the line.

"I'm scheduling a meeting with the President-elect," the chief executive said, his voice flat. "Just like you asked."

No hint of emotion. "Thank you, Mr. President."

The President only grunted. "Still don't know why I have to do it. Why don't you just have those people of yours sneak you in here so you can talk to him yourself next week?"

"It has always been done this way, with but one exception. And that was only because of dire circumstances. It is best for the outgoing President to inform the incoming President of our existence. To do it some other way might suggest a rogue intelligence group."

"Yeah," the President said, dabbing at the thick rouge on his cheek. His finger came back orange. "Guess so. Hey, I've got something I'd like you to look into before I'm gone." He rubbed the makeup between thumb and forefinger.

A pause. "Yes?"

That snide tone. Filled with suspicion and condescension.

"It's just a small thing," the President said. "Someone's brought something to my attention about a company called Raffair." He went on to give the broad details as outlined in Mark Howard's report.

"That is not a typical assignment," came the lemony conclusion once the President was through. A moment of thoughtful consideration followed. "However, I will see if there is something larger at work there. Is there anything else?"

"No," the President said. "That's it."

"Goodbye, sir."

The line went dead.

The President replaced the phone, sliding the nightstand drawer closed with his ankle. "Goodbye to you, Smith," he said quietly.

More than anything, this President wanted a legacy. His last year in office had been about nothing but that, with little success. Until now. Although it wouldn't be written in any history books, he was about to get a real legacy.

The old man on the phone was a throwback to another era. It was the dawn of a new century. Time for new thinking. For young blood.

As he was getting up from the bed, there came a growling and scratching at the door. With a beleaguered sigh, the President picked up a book from a stack on the nightstand. There were similar stacks all around the family quarters. His campaign manifesto, Between God and Man. How Great I Am had done extremely poorly in stores back in '96. Luckily, the President had recently found a new use for the cases that had been recalled.

He opened the door a crack, waving the cover with his picture through the opening. When the growling reached a fevered pitch, he flung the book down the hallway.

As the frantic trampling of the presidential dog receded in one direction, the President threw the door to the Lincoln Bedroom open and ran like mad in the other.

Chapter 7

Remo had walked the streets of Quincy late into the night, returning home in the wee hours of the morning. When he got back, the old church was blessedly silent. It was one-thirty by the time he crawled into bed.

His blissful sleep was shattered at 6:00 a.m. by the full-throated yodeling of the full-figured Wylander.

Apparently, Chiun didn't want to miss a single warbled note. While upstairs, he played the music softly enough, but when he ventured to other areas of the house he turned up the volume. Right now the Master of Sinanju was scouring the basement fish tanks for breakfast, Wylander was threatening to shatter the remaining windows in the bell-tower meditation room and Remo was on his way out the kitchen door. He had his hand on the doorknob when the wall phone rang.

Scooping up the phone, he jammed a finger in his free ear. "Make it quick," he warned.

The familiar voice of Harold W. Smith was as sour as a sack of trampled grapefruit.

"Remo, Smith. I-" the CURE director stopped dead. "What on earth is that din?"

Remo closed his eyes. "It's called a Wylander, Smitty," he said. "And get used to that name, because I have a feeling it's gonna come up during our next contract negotiations. Chiun's got that old Barbra Streisand gleam in his eye." He hopped to a sitting position on the counter. "What's up?"

"Er, yes," Smith said uncertainly. "I was actually calling for two reasons. First, to let you know that the bodies of the MIR terrorists have been discovered and second, to tell you that I have another small assignment for you."

The CURE director went on to tell him of the President's request that they look into Raffair, as well as more detailed background information Smith himself had dredged up following his conversation with the chief executive.

"Why don't we just run out the clock on this guy?" Remo asked once he was through. "He's gone on Saturday. Besides, this sounds like a nothing job."

"Perhaps," Smith said. "However, my relationship with this President has been-" he searched for the right word "-strained. I have decided that it would do no harm to indulge him in this one last matter."

"Leave on a high note, huh," Remo said. "I gotcha. Guess this is your way of apologizing for not crowning him King of North America and Sovereign Ruler of Guam, the Virgin Islands and American Samoa. Okay, Chiun and I will go rattle a few cages. It'll probably be good to get him out of here anyway. I think the neighbors are already assembling with torches and pitchforks."

Not wishing to ponder the ramifications of what Remo was saying, the CURE director forged ahead. Smith gave Remo the New York address of Lippincott, Forsythe, Butler.

"An agent for that firm guided the IPO for Raffair. Perhaps he can tell you how a company can do so well without having an apparent owner or generates revenue without producing a clear product. His name is Lawrence Fine."

Remo raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You're kidding, right?" he asked.

"Why?" Smith asked, puzzled.

Remo opened his mouth to explain. But then he remembered a story Smith had told him about the days when the future director of CURE and his wife were dating. They had gone to see a Marx Brothers movie, and Smith had spent the entire evening complaining about the fact that Groucho's mustache was only painted on and that Chico was obviously not Italian. For Smith, these transgressions shed serious doubt on the notion that Harpo was an actual mute. It was the last movie the Smiths saw together. The cultural vacuum the old man lived in would make an explanation pointless.