It had been the target of Don Carmine's violent outburst, Remo realized.
"I was robbed!" he was howling. "The fuggin' computer's completely busted."
"Nice shot," Remo said in the darkness.
"Who's that? Who's there?"
"Call me Remo."
"I call you dead, cogsugger," said Don Carmine, yanking back on the charging bolt of his weapon.
"And what do you call me, Roman?" came the squeaky voice of the Master of Sinanju.
In the act of bringing his tommy gun up to bear, Don Carmine turned toward the unexpected sound.
"I know that voice. You're the fuggin' Jap thief "
"Don't call him-" Remo started to say.
Don Carmine Imbruglia never completed his turn. A sandaled foot grazed his kneecaps, turning them to powder. A long-nailed hand took hold of the muzzle of his weapon.
When Don Carmine collapsed, his hands were empty.
The Master of Sinanju made short work of the tommy. The barrel came loose like a pipe being separated from an elbow joint. The drum broke open, raining bullets. Various pieces of the breech and stock were reduced to wood shavings and metal filings under the friction of Chiun's high-speed manipulations.
"What the fug happened?" came the dull voice of Don Carmine, looking at his stung, empty hands.
"You called him a Jap," Remo pointed out.
"Well, he is, ain't he?"
"Oops! You did it again."
Don Carmine felt something like steel darning needles take up his wrist. They squeezed inexorably. Don Carmine screamed. The pain was frightening, like being injected with dozens of acid-filled hypodermics.
"You can't do this to me!" howled Don Carmine through his agony. "I know my rights. You got nothing on me without my computers, and they just took a dive. So there. Go peddle your papers elsewhere. I'm the fuggin' Kingpin of Boston. "
"And here's your fuggin' crown," said Remo, picking up the bullet-riddled IDC terminal and jamming it over Don Carmine's head like an astronaut's helmet.
A muffled cursing came from within the terminal.
The Master of Sinanju took hold of the terminal to steady it, Don Carmine's head with it. He separated his hands, then brought them together.
Runkk!
Don Carmine's futuristic head was suddenly two feet narrower and half afoot higher. It hovered in the darkness, balanced on the mafioso's thick neck for long moments.
With a last guttering spark and hiss, it fell across the table legs. Don Carmine's limbs twitched a little, as if feeding off the electricity in the terminal. Then he lay still.
In the darkness, Remo looked up at Chiun.
"We were supposed to find out if anyone else knew how to run the LANSCII program," Remo pointed out.
Chiun shrugged shadowy shoulders. "He called me an unforgivable name." His smile came dimly. "Also, he was the last to labor under that misconception. I could not allow him to slander the Master of Sinanju further. What would my ancestors think?"
Remo searched his mind for an appropriate comeback. He never found it. Instead, he said quietly, "They would be proud of you, Little Father. As I am."
And in the darkness, the two Masters of Sinanju bowed to one another in mutual respect.
From a pay phone in the foyer of a nearby Chinese restaurant, Remo was explaining what had happened to Harold W. Smith.
"Just to make sure, we shattered every computer in the place," Remo was saying. "Believe me, there were a lot of them."
Thorough but unnecessary," said Smith approvingly. "But they were already useless. I had programmed the LANSCII disk Chiun stole with a computer virus called a time bomb. Once Don Carmine had it reinstalled, it has been silently replicating itself over and over until it filled all available memory in every system in the LCN network, literally paralyzing it."
"Was that the hard dynamic abort I saw?" Remo asked.
"It was."
"Well, it set Don Carmine off. He shot up his own system when he couldn't get it working. He nearly nailed Chiun and me while we were moving in on him."
"Without knowing how much memory we were dealing with," said Smith, "there was no way to predict when system-wide paralysis would be achieved. Besides, you and Chiun are too quick to be stopped by mere bullets."
"Not at that particular moment, we weren't," said Remo, noticing the Master of Sinanju through the glass doors. "Okay, that's a wrap. I've gotta get Chiun back to civilization fast. "
"Why do you say that, Remo?" Smith wondered.
"He's found out how cheap real estate is up here. If I don't get him across the state line soon, he's going to have us living here. "
"It is not a bad idea, Remo."
"It is a terrible idea, Smitty. Put it out of your mind."
"We have several important matters to address," Smith said levelly. "Your new face. The disposition of your home. The-"
Remo hung up, saying, "The sheer pleasure of our wonderful working relationship."
He joined the Master of Sinanju outside the restaurant. Chiun was gazing across a busy artery, his eyes fixed on a tall condominium complex with unlighted windows.
" I am given to understand that that entire building is for sale at a reasonable price," Chiun said.
"It must be practically free for you to call it reasonable," Remo said dryly. "It's ugly, too."
"But cheap," Chiun pointed out.
"More ugly than cheap," Remo countered.
"You have not heard the price."
"Tell you what, Little Father. I'll agree to take a look at it if you come clean with me."
The Master of Sinanju lifted his wrinkled little face up to his pupil's own, his expression quizzical.
"Tell me what you had the plastic surgeon do to my face," Remo said.
The Master of Sinanju passed a pale hand the color of a pecan down his wispy beard, his hazel eyes thoughtful.
"You are right, Remo," said the old Korean flatly. "It is ugly."
Remo blinked. "The building or my face?"
"Both."