"So we're checkmated?" Remo asked, watching the numbers on the screen change, actuated by unseen fingers hundreds of miles away.
Smith leaned back in his chair. "We know that he is headquartered in Quincy, Massachusetts. But we do not know where. Thus far, the key to thwarting him lies in an understanding of the psychology of the mob. We need to lure him out into the open."
"Any ideas?" asked Remo.
"None," admitted Smith. "I am stymied."
"I have a suggestion, O Emperor," put in Chiun.
Both men regarded the Master of Sinanju in surprise.
"What have you to add, Master Chiun?" Smith asked, his glum voice lifting.
"Merely wisdom," said Chiun smugly, eyeing Remo. Remo frowned but said nothing.
"Go ahead," said Smith.
"Offer this moneylender the thing that most appeals to him."
"And that is?"
"Money," said Chiun, raising a wise finger.
"Do you mean to bribe him?" asked Smith.
"No," said Chiun. "I mean offer this man a generous amount of money, but insist that he accept it in person. Tell him it is in repayment of an old debt that troubles your conscience."
"Never work," said Remo.
"It cannot hurt to try," countered Smith, logging off LANSCII and quickly pecking out a fax message.
He programmed his computer to dial the fax number of LCN. When he was satisfied with the text, he pressed the Send key.
The system hummed.
"What's happening?" Remo asked.
"Emperor Smith is following my wise and brilliant counsel," said the Master of Sinanju in a smug tone.
"I have just faxed my offer to Don Carmine," explained Smith.
"Can you fax straight from a computer like that?" Remo wanted to know.
Smith nodded absently. "It is a common application."
"News to me."
"You have much to learn, round eyes," sniffed Chiun. "Such as how to penetrate so-called secure rooms."
"I'd like to be a fly on the wall watching you get through one of those," Remo said, stealing a worried glance at the reflection of his eyes in the terminal screen.
"You would undoubtedly repeat your earlier error, even as an insignificant fly." The Master of Sinanju beamed. "Heh-heh. Even as an insignificant round-eyed fly. Heh-heh."
When Remo refused to join in the Master of Sinanju's amused laughter, Chiun went on.
"Emperor Smith has explained how the alert machines work. They are very simple. Like you."
"I'm all ears," said Remo.
"One moment," Smith said as his desk fax began to ring.
Out of the port streamed a long sheet a slick paper. Smith tore it off.
"What's he say?" Remo asked.
"He's very anxious to receive the sixty thousand dollars offered him."
"No surprise there. Did he ask what it was for?"
"He did not. I simply said it was an old debt."
"And he didn't question it?"
"No," said Smith, worrying his lower lip in a puzzled way. "But he made a strange request. He asked me to fax him a check." Harold Smith turned to the Master of Sinanju.
"Tell him no," instructed Chiun. "Inform him you wish to tender personal apologies for your slight."
Smith pecked out an answer, transmitted it, and received a prompt reply.
"He has agreed," Smith said after reading the return fax. He looked up. "I do not understand. Why would so brilliant a criminal fall for such an obvious ruse?"
"It is very simple," said the Master of Sinanju.
They looked at him expectantly. "First, he is greedy." "What's second?" asked Remo. "He is no more brilliant than Remo."
Chapter 36
Bruno the Chef was cooking a simple ravioli when Don Carmine Imbruglia barged into the LCN conference room, waving the morning edition of the Boston Herald.
"It's fuggin' on page three!" he chortled, spreading the paper on the conference table.
"What is?" asked Bruno.
"The dope on Fiavorante's gettin' whacked. They found his body last night."
"Guess that Tony pulled it off. So why ain't he back yet?"
"Don't be a mook. He clipped Fiavorante. Fiavorante's guys clipped him back. End of story. Listen, see what it says here." Don Carmine read along. "This ain't right," he muttered.
"What?"
"This can't be."
"What?"
"They say when they found Fiavorante there wasn't a mark on him. What happened to the slugs No Numbers pumped into him?"
"It say who's takin' over?"
"Hold your horses. I'm gettin' to that. Oh, Mother of God," said Don Carmine. "Something is very, very wrong. I smell a rat here. This is wrong. This is very wrong."
"What?"
"Says here that Don Pietro Scubisci has taken over."
"I heard he was in a coma."
"He's out. Maybe he got time off for good behavior. Fug! Now we gotta whack him out too."
"Why?"
"On account of he and I got history together. It's gonna be him or it's gonna be me."
"Who you gonna send? All your guys are dead."
"I'll worry about that later. We gotta protect ourselves first. Lock all the doors. Turn on all the alarms. Nobody comes in. Nobody goes out. We lay low for a while."
"Sure, boss, but what about that sixty G's you was supposed to pick up today?"
Don Carmine looked up from his newspaper.
"That's right. I almost forgot about that." His eyes narrowed craftily. "Okay, so you make the pickup instead. I'll hide out in the computertry room with all the motion alarms running. No one will touch me. I'll be safer than the fuggin' First Lady."
"What if it's a hit?"
"If it's a hit, they won't touch you. It's me they're after."
"If you say so, boss," Bruno the Chef said without enthusiasm.
" I say so," growled Don Carmine Imbruglia, wadding up the newspaper and bouncing it off the wall in frustration. "And on the way back I want you to pick up the oldest, most rotten-looking cod you can scrounge up."
"Why?"
"I'm gonna Fedex it to Don Pietro in the hope that when he gets a whiff of it, he's gonna fuggin' relapse."
Chapter 37
Bruno the Chef pulled into the Bartilucci Construction yard just after noon.
Getting out of the black Cadillac, he looked around. No one was in sight. He ambled over to the idle nibbler and climbed in. If there was trouble, he wanted to be ready for it.
When they showed up, they were driving a blue Buick. It coasted to a stop beside Bruno's Cadillac. Bruno started the nibbler engine, just in case.
The front doors of the Buick popped out like wings, and two figures emerged with the perfect timing of matched reflections.
Except that the duo bore no resemblance to one another.
Bruno recognized the passenger as the Jap computer expert, Chiun. The other seemed familiar, but the face was not.
They approached with calm assurance.
"How's tricks, Bruno?" asked the man in the silk suit.
"Do I know you?"
"You don't remember your old buddy Remo?"
"Remo!" That was all Bruno the Chef had to hear. It was a hit. He sent the nibbler rumbling forward, engaging the pneumatic chisel, which unfolded like an articulated stinger.
"Let me handle this," said Remo to the Jap. The Jap glowered. "I owe him," Remo added.
Nodding his head, the old Jap stayed by the cars. Remo advanced with an easy fearless walk that was unnerving.
Bruno the Chef maneuvered the chattering blunt chisel until it hovered before Remo's advancing chest. Then he floored the gas.
With seeming ease Remo faded back before the nibbler's angry lunge, the vibrating nib a constant inch away. Bruno sent the nibbler careening until he had Remo retreating in the direction Bruno wanted him to go. When he slammed into the brick wall behind him, he would get it.