Warren Murphy: Syndication Rites

"Very well, sir," Smith said. "This ends your contact with this agency. Tonight you will brief your successor about us, and later in the evening, while you sleep, my men will visit you and perform the same procedure they have already performed on your wife. You will forget forever the existence of this agency and its personnel. Goodbye, Mr. President."

"Wait, Smith," the President called. His hand tightened on the red phone.

"Yes, sir?"

Sitting on the floor in his bathrobe adorned with the presidential seal, the President shifted on his ample rump. A lost-little-boy look came to his blotchy face.

"I wasn't so bad, was I?" America's chief executive asked. "I mean, this stuff at the end wasn't too great, but I was okay otherwise, right?" All his life he had always sought approval. He listened expectantly now for an answer.

At first, Smith's voice was flat and dispassionate. "Your actions have threatened us with exposure and put at risk the lives of my two operatives, men to whom this nation owes a debt untold for three decades of tireless, thankless service." By this point, his lemony tone was that of a disappointed New England school marm. "Yes, Mr. President, you were bad. You were very, very bad."

And with this final admonishment over, the red phone went dead for the last time in the ear of the future ex-President.

IN HIS FOLCROFT OFFICE, Smith replaced the phone with an authoritative click. Face pinched, he slid the drawer shut.

"Guess suck-up time is over," Remo suggested. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, the Master of Sinanju at his side.

Smith nodded tightly. "Tomorrow at noon, we begin with a clean slate. Although we must temper that fact with the knowledge that this President will doubtless not speak kindly of us when he briefs his successor tonight."

Remo shrugged, as if it were all a matter of supreme indifference to him. "One President's pretty much the same as the next one to me," he said. "This guy was no great shakes, but I've seen the new President, so I'm not getting my hopes up. I did like that part, though, where you played us up for our thankless service. That'll come in handy at contract time, I'm sure."

From the corner of his eye, he looked over to the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun sat rigid on the worn carpet, eyes straight ahead. His teacher's silent sadness brushed Remo's heart.

"While you were tracking down the three men who destroyed your home, I continued my search for Anselmo Scubisci," the CURE director said, changing the subject. "He took a jet from Canada to parts unknown. No flight plan was registered. I can't locate a pilot, so he cannot be traced for questioning. For all intents and purposes, Ansehno Scubisci has vanished without a trace."

"And lives to bug us some other day," Remo said bitterly. "If it wasn't for Washington's answer to Evita Peron and her San Juan ski patrol, we would have had him, Smitty."

"Yes," Smith said. "But let us view this with some optimism. Scubisci's plan was a failure. The Securities and Exchange Commission is now looking into Raffair. The stock has collapsed. Given all this, it is likely that Anselmo Scubisci's Camorra benefactor is not pleased with him. Perhaps our work has been done for us."

"I'm not too hot on leaps of faith, Smitty," Remo said. "And I remember a time when you weren't, either."

Smith leaned back in his chair, steepling his long fingers at his chin. "You will find, Remo, that the world changes as you age." His gray eyes were faraway.

The office lights were turned down low. They reflected dully on the big picture window behind Smith. For a moment, cast half in shadow and bathed in pale amber light, the figure seated behind that broad desk seemed unchanged from the first time Remo had seen him.

Smith spoke, breaking the spell. "I should inform the two of you that I have been considering suspending operations," he announced softly.

"Huh?" Remo asked. He glanced at the Master of Sinanju. This had gotten the old Korean's attention.

"The thought has been with me for some time," Smith admitted. "This posting has always been demanding, even in my younger years. And while you and Chiun have remained more than consistent in your abilities throughout our association, clearly I have not."

"You are in but the second blush of life, O Emperor," Chiun said dismissively. "Do not trouble yourself with such vexing thoughts until you have reached one hundred."

"Realistically, that is not an option," Smith said somberly. "And even if I were to stay on very much longer, I am not certain that I'm equipped to understand this new age."

"There's no new age, Smitty," Remo said. "It's always just the same crummy old one with a new coat of paint and a bigger price tag."

"I disagree, Remo. In my day, ordinary Americans would not have invested money in organized crime. A project like Raffair would never have been seriously considered by the Mafia. Such things are products of a different America. One which I am becoming less able to comprehend."

"Bulldookey," Remo offered. "Ow!" he said, feeling a sudden pinch on his thigh.

With a silencing look, Chiun withdrew his tapered nails.

"You will retire?" he asked Smith, his eyes narrowing.

Smith thought of the poison pill in his vest pocket. "In a manner of speaking," he nodded. "Before you leave on this sunny autumn journey, Smith the Generous, Sinanju craves a boon."

"If it is within my power to give it."

"Please be kind enough to tell the new occupant of the Eagle Throne that which you just told his lardbellied predecessor."

"I knew you were listening," Remo said. He had to slap a hand over his leg to avoid another pinch.

"The idiot is going to commit suicide," Chiun hissed in Korean. "Before he kills himself, he could at least put in a good word for us." To Smith, he said, "Your humble servants would be eternally grateful."

There was no rancor visible on Smith's tired face. As he nodded, he stood. "I will see what I can do."

"A thousand thank-yous, Emperor Smith," Chiun said, bowing his head. "Do not play us up too much, however. After all, we do not wish to appear desperate."

Smith came around his desk, his battered leather briefcase at his side.

"Where are you going, Smitty?" Remo asked, trying to dispel the mercenary air that had just descended on the dusty office. "I thought you didn't have to be back in your coffin until sunrise."

"Home," Smith replied. "And the two of you should be leaving, too. You have a plane to catch for Washington. I would appreciate it if you first disposed of the MIR agent you brought here. He is in the security wing."

"Can do," Remo nodded. He was studying the tired lines in the CURE director's face.

"When you leave, be certain to lock this room. Good night." With that, Smith left the office.

"Great," Remo muttered after he was gone. "More planes." He unscissored his legs, rising fluidly to his feet. "If there's any smuggled boom boxes on this flight, I'm tossing them through a jet engine."

Chiun rose delicately beside him. "Unless they are playing the lovely Wylander," he said.

Remo's head snapped around. "Whoa. You told me you were giving up country music."

Chiun gave him a look generally reserved for dim children and mental defectives. "Country music, yes," he said, turning on one heel. "Oxygen, no."

And as his pupil's face fell, the Master of Sinanju padded silently from the shadowy office.

Chapter 38

As promised, the government car picked him up at precisely ten o'clock. Mark didn't even try to engage the driver in conversation for the whole ride to Washington. Lost in silent thoughts, he braced his broken arm on the armrest and stared out at the twinkling lights.

At the White House, he was ushered up to the family quarters. He was surprised to see so little furniture upstairs. A butler brought him down to the Lincoln Bedroom.