Warren Murphy: Syndication Rites

"No," he insisted. "She just told us where ju would be. In Boston, we knew you would be coming soon, but at the places like this we were told to wait. She did not know when you would arrive, only that you would come."

"Okay," Remo said. "Here's the twenty-thousand-dollar question-who's 'she'? The only one who knows about us is our boss, us and..." His voice trailed off. It struck him like a bolt out of the blue. "Oh," he said quietly.

He turned to the Master of Sinanju. There was a hint of a knowing look on the old man's otherwise inscrutable face.

"She's your-" Rodriguez began.

They were the only words he managed to get out before the hardened finger pierced his occipital lobe. All speech, thought and life ended at the same time for the revolutionary leader. When Remo pulled his finger free, General Rolando Rodriguez toppled sideways into the wall of the toilet stall.

Remo spun. His face was a dark thundercloud. "Let's go," he said to the Master of Sinanju. Behind them, Mark Howard had climbed back to his feet. He'd been listening to the commando's words with growing fascination, but when Remo and Chiun swept toward him, the CIA man backed nervously against the wall.

Chiun breezed past him without even acknowledging his existence. Remo stopped before the young man.

For a moment, Mark held his breath, unsure what his fate might be. When Remo raised a hand, he flinched.

Remo extended a cautionary finger. "Forget everything," he warned. "It beats me having to kill you."

That was it. The hand lowered and he was gone. Out into the main office. A minute later, Mark heard the sound of an engine turning over. The car faded into the night.

Only when the sound had died completely did he exhale. As he leaned against the wall, his shoulders sagged. He hugged his broken wrist as he tried to catch his breath.

He'd done it. He had faced down the fear of his own destiny and had survived.

Smith and his agents were irrelevant to his future-at least for now. Surprisingly, fate had brought him here to learn something else entirely. Something that went to the character of the man who had found him toiling in anonymity at the CIA.

MIR. The Puerto Rican separatist group. A huge controversy over a year ago. And here were the terrorists now, apparently sent after one of Smith's agents.

Mark knew the truth. And he also knew that no matter what he was asked to do by the President of the United States between now and Inauguration Day, he would not allow himself to be corrupted. Ever.

Still bracing his arm, he pushed away from the wall. His breathing was close to normal.

The authorities would be here soon. He'd better get his holster and get out before they arrived. Leaving the bodies of Fabio Gabinetto and Rolando Rodriguez, Mark C. Howard headed for the back of the tomb-silent Raffair office.

Chapter 32

Remo called Smith from the plane.

"You were right, Smitty," he announced. "Those Puerto Rican terrorists are the ones who've been trying to kill me all along."

"I know," the CURE director replied. "The man you brought back here regained consciousness a few hours ago. I tried to call you during your flight from New Orleans to Miami, but the plane's system was down."

"The navigator probably shorted it out when he accidentally spilled his rum and Coke," Remo said dryly. "So did he tell you who's behind it?"

"Yes," Smith replied, thin distaste in his voice.

"Oh." Remo sounded disappointed. He had wanted to be the one to tell the older man. "We're giving a pass to the other Raffair offices," he said. "Chiun and I are flying back to New York. We'll hit her first and then put this whole goose chase to bed."

Smith's reply surprised him. "No," he said. "No matter what the motivation was to involve us, Raffair is still a danger. I have had no luck tracing Anselmo Scubisci's benefactor. Once you are finished here, I want you to go to the federal penitentiary in Missouri and find out from him who is behind this."

Remo sighed. "Okay."

"And, Remo," Smith warned. "Do not kill her." He wanted to make his orders clear, so he did not substitute a euphemism for the distasteful word.

"Kind of figured that," Remo replied. "But I'm looking forward to this inauguration like I've never looked forward to one before, and if I miss it because of jet lag, I'm gonna insist that Chiun start listening to country music again. And since we're house guests of yours for the foreseeable future, you'll have half the staff of that nuthouse up on the roof banging down loose shingles."

Chapter 33

The heavy blue quilt was pulled up to her neck. Lying alone in her big comfortable bed in New York's Westchester County, she was trying desperately to banish the vexing thoughts that had plagued her this past week.

Though dawn was still a few hours away, the soft Spanish voice still droned incessantly in the background. Just as it had for the past twelve months. Even at night she'd been allowing the soft words to penetrate her brain. But though the faceless man had recited ceaselessly-day after day, week after week-she just wasn't getting it.

"iEsta Susana en casa? Si, esta con una amiga. Donde esta en la sala. No, en la cocina. "

The metallic man's voice stopped short. There was a soft whir and a click, followed by silence. From her bed, she snaked out a hand. Fumbling around the nightstand, she popped the front on the portable tape player. She pulled out the ninety-minute cassette. Printed on its side was the phrase: "Learn Spanish just like the diplomats do! It's easy, fun and fast!"

She flipped the tape and dropped it back in the machine. When she pressed the Play button, the man continued to recite the same dialogues she'd been listening to for months.

For some reason, the words just weren't sticking. There was no reason why she shouldn't be picking it up easier. After all, she was the most brilliant woman ever to set shoe to soil. Time, Newsweek, Eleanor Clift and all the major networks had told her so for the past eight years.

But in spite of her penetrating intellect, so far the only words she'd learned were hola and si. And though no one in the Movimiento de Izquierda Revolucionaria dared tell her, she still mispronounced both of those.

"Stupid language," she muttered under her sleep mask. "My first edict will be to make that filthy little island an English-only zone."

When a voice answered her from out of the night, she was stunned that it did not come from her tape player.

"Does that include the name Puerto Rico, too? 'Cause the only ones who really stand to benefit from that are the mapmakers."

When she whipped off her mask, she winced. The bedroom lights had been turned on.

Two men stood near the door. She recognized them at once. "You," the First Lady of the United States screeched.

Remo's face was hard. "And everyone knows that the mapmakers are still sitting on the sacks of gold they made after Russia collapsed," he concluded.

Beside him, the Master of Sinanju offered a polite bow. "Madam," the old Asian said.

The First Lady didn't return the courtesy. In a flash, she shot up out of bed, planting her bare feet firmly on the ornate Oriental rug that had been stolen from the White House Map Room. With an ungodly howl, she ripped the nightstand tape player up and flung it at Remo's head.

He plucked it from the air, carefully pressing the Stop button before placing it to the floor.

She threw a lamp at the Master of Sinanju. The old man ducked to one side, and the lamp shattered against the wall.

Panting, she wheeled on them, all bobbing pageboy hair and flashing teeth.

"I knew it was you," the First Lady hissed. "I only met you those couple of times, but as soon as that spic Rodriguez mentioned those freaky wrists of yours, I knew it."