Warren Murphy - Syndication Rites

With a final wheeze, he slumped over the steering wheel. It honked like a desolate foghorn. "Dammit," Remo growled, "Thanks to her, we missed out on the action. We never miss out on the action. I'm telling you, Little Father, those two are a curse."

Chiun was cocking an attentive ear to the cold white sky. "Emperor Smith will not be pleased that the Roman lord eluded us, but he will be even less so if he learns that we have been filmed again," he intoned somberly.

Remo listened for what the Korean had heard. Helicopters. A lot, by the sounds of it. No doubt the press had heard about the mass escape at Ogdenburg and were racing to the scene.

"Why can't my life ever be easy?" Remo groused.

They dove into the car. Remo had to throw two convicts out onto the road before he could put it in Reverse and hightail it back down the highway.

Chapter 35

Mark Howard had endured the pain in his broken wrist for the whole flight back to Washington. He had the bone set at Arlington Orthopedic Hospital before returning home. When he finally trudged through the door of his apartment, it was Friday afternoon.

The digital answering machine on the stand inside the door registered one phone call. He ignored the steady beep of the machine while he pulled his gun out of his bag with his good hand. He stuffed the weapon and holster far back in his desk drawer. When he finally returned to the machine twenty minutes later, he was chewing on a ham sandwich.

Mark pressed the message button, turning the volume up loud. He walked into the living room, sinking into a chair as the message played.

"Hello, Mark?" asked the familiar hoarse voice. "You there? If you're there, pick up. No? Oh. This is your President speaking. No wait, scratch that. Got in trouble identifyin' myself on tape before. Anyway, I got an important offer I'd like to make you. You probably didn't know it, but I had you checked out these past few months. You got a real weird personality profile there, buddy. Loyal to your friends, dismissive of your enemies. Like they don't rate spit. Did you know they were thinkin' of firin' you once 'cause they thought you were hidin' something from them? But you passed all the lie detectors for national loyalty and that secret-keeping stuff, so they decided to keep you on.

"Anyway, I got a proposition for you that I think we should talk about in person. I got a car that'll come and pick you up at ten tonight. You don't have to do anything but get in. I'll tell you what's what when you get here. Uh, I guess that's it. You still not there? I really hate these goddamn machines. Okay, see you tonight."

Two seconds more of dead air and the answering machine beeped off. With a click, it reset itself to 0 messages.

In the living room, Mark's eyes were closed. He still held his sandwich, but he hadn't taken a bite since the message had started playing. He suddenly wasn't very hungry.

Mark tossed the sandwich to the coffee table. In doing so, he bumped his cast against the arm of his chair. He winced at the pain.

Treating his broken arm very gingerly, he pulled himself to his feet. He needed a shower. But he'd have to cover his cast with something first.

Mark shuffled off to the kitchen. To dump the loaf of Wonder bread out of its long plastic bag.

Chapter 36

The black Cobra helicopter carried Don Anselmo Scubisci across the border into Canada. A private jet bought by Sol Sweet with Raffair money was waiting for him. Before the American authorities were aware of what had even happened, Don Scubisci was far over the Atlantic. In half a day, he was on the ground in Naples.

A black limo with darkened windows was there to meet him at the airport.

The estate of Don Hector Vincenzo was a well-guarded fortress nestled safely within gently sloping hills at the fringe of Naples where the edge of the old city met the azure waters of the Tyrthenian Sea. The limousine kicked up plumes of dust in its wake as it drove past the naked winter vineyards to the big old house.

An armed guard met Don Scubisci's car at the end of the great round drive. The Manhattan Mafia leader was led through the cool, drafty house and out onto a glass-enclosed patio that overlooked dormant vineyards.

Don Vincenzo was sitting at a white wrought-iron table. A glass of deep red wine sat at his elbow. Beside it was a cloth bag, knotted at the neck. "You have had a busy day, Anselmo," Don Vincenzo said. He did not look at the younger man, did not offer a seat. As the Camorra leader stared out over his fields, Scubisci stood uncomfortably before him.

No men toiled among the vines. A cold sun shone down on the hills of Naples.

"I had nowhere else to go," Don Scubisci admitted.

"So you come straight to me? Lead them to me, hmm?" He finally turned to the younger Don. His watery old eyes were flat.

Don Scubisci pressed his hands together. "Please, Don Vincenzo," he begged, his voice a painful rasp. "My own people will not accept the wisdom of my decision to join with you. They will see it as an act of betrayal. I wasn't safe in prison. Some force unknown to me has destroyed all we built together. They would have come to me eventually. This I know. I had to flee from them and from my own people."

He was practically in tears.

"Would you serve me faithfully?" Don Vincenzo asked. He tipped his head as he looked up at the sweating man.

A spark of hope. Don Anselmo nodded desperately. "This I promise, Don Hector," he pleaded. "You have my word."

"You are disloyal to your own blood, and you expect me to believe you will remain faithful to me?" Don Vincenzo said, with doubtful amusement. Hope burned away. The words would not come.

"Please, " Scubisci wept finally.

"You are Mafia. La Cosa Nostra. I am Camorra. It is my blood, my soul. We were enemies before either of us was born, Anselmo. It is the way of things." Don Vincenzo waved a sad apology. "Thanks to long-ago fate, your people thrived in America. And because of that, your Mafia Families ran the world. For a time. But your power wanes. In time it will be no more." He smiled his row of yellow-brown teeth. "But Camorra will thrive after you are gone."

Don Hector Vincenzo took a thoughtful sip of his wine.

"You were weak after your imprisonment, Anselmo," he said, putting the glass carefully to the table. "I saw opportunity in that weakness. Raffair was not the simple moneymaking scheme I claimed. Nor was it your stepping-stone to domination of the American market. It was designed specifically to weaken the Mafia. If Raffair was successful for a time, I reaped the benefits. If Raffair failed publicly-and such public failure always involves the authorities, Anselmo-it would be a black eye for the Mafia. Either way I win. But, I am afraid, there is no way for you to do so. I am sorry for this."

A subtle nod. Missed by Don Scubisci. The American Mafia leader was about to plead for his life once more when it was suddenly and abruptly ended.

The bullet hit Don Anselmo Scubisci in the back of the head. His forehead yawned open, and he sprawled lifeless to the cold patio.

As bits of flesh and brain were splattering to stone, the guard who had led the Manhattan Mafia leader through Don Vincenzo's home replaced his rifle on his shoulder.

Still seated, the Camorra leader picked up the cloth bag from the table. Old fingers tugged open the string at the neck. Taking the bag by the end, he shook it a few times over the body of Don Scubisci. A fat white pigeon dropped onto the back of the dead Mafia leader.

"See that they are buried together," he instructed. "Yes, Don Hector."

Another guard appeared. The two men dragged the body off the patio. After they were gone, another came up the side steps, pulling a garden hose behind him. He began hosing the small specks of Don Anseimo Scubisci's brains off the windowpanes.