He'd sensed the two sets of eyes focused on his back almost since they'd left the LFB building. As he spoke, the car that had been slowly following them through the Wall Street traffic screeched to a stop.
Two men were springing from the front seat when Remo and Chiun turned. They wore fatigue pants, camouflage jackets and heavy boots. Black ski masks obscured all but their eyes and mouths.
"We need one of them alive, Little Father," Remo said.
"Do whatever you wish," Chiun sniffed. "They are interested in you, not me."
It was true. All their attention appeared to be focused entirely on Remo.
At the front of their car, both men drew long knives from their jackets. Bringing their hands back expertly to their shoulders, they swept their arms downward. With twin hums, the knives sailed at Remo's chest.
He caught one blade with a broad sidestroke, batting it harmlessly to the sidewalk. The second he smacked sharply by the handle, twisting it in midair. The knife had not fully stopped flying in one direction before a firm nudge from Remo sent it zipping back from whence it had come.
The blade buried itself deep in the nearer man's face. His mask seemed to sprout an extralong snout, and he dropped to the sidewalk, dead.
A frightened shudder rose palpably among the throng of pedestrians. Remo ignored the scattering crowd, moving directly for the second masked man.
When he saw Remo coming at him, the second man's eyes went wide inside his ski mask. He had apparently thought two knives would do the trick, for as he searched his khaki jacket for another weapon he came up empty.
There was only one thing left for him to do. Turning, the man flung himself onto his belly out in the street. He skidded directly under the wheels of a passing New York Transit Authority bus. His body made a sickening crunching sound before being dragged up into the slush-encased wheel well of the big bus.
"So much for getting answers from them," Remo grumbled as the bus rolled to a ponderous, squeaking stop.
He hurried back to where his first attacker had fallen. Chiun stood above the body.
"I do not recognize this symbol," the old man said when Remo stopped beside him. He pointed to the dead man's coat.
There was a simple white button pinned to his chest. On it, what looked like a pair of wavy black parentheses enclosed a plain black oval. Remo pulled it loose.
"Me, either," he said. "But we better let Smitty know we've made some new friends." He pocketed the button.
As a crowd began to form around the two fallen bodies, the two Masters of Sinanju melted back into the crush of onlookers. They were long gone before the fresh sound of sirens rose in the cold city air.
Chapter 8
With his arms stretched out wide to either side, Sol Sweet resembled a tidy little scarecrow. A long wand bent in a U-shape was passed up and down both sides of his body. He had gone through the same drill many times in the drab room.
He took in his surroundings with an impatient eye.
The cinder-block walls were painted green. Bare white recessed ceiling bulbs glared out through wire mesh. A desk was bolted to one wall. It was fashioned from the same metal as the door. Both door and desk were starting to rust.
That was all. The U.S. government hadn't spent much on upkeep for Missouri's Ogdenburg Federal Penitentiary. Most of the budget these days went for color TV, cable, gym equipment and other vital human necessities people on a limited budget in the outside world couldn't afford.
"You're taking an excessive amount of time," Sweet accused, his nasal voice clipped. In his head, he was already sketching out his formal complaint.
The nearest prison guard didn't seem to even hear him.
"He's clean," he announced to his partner. He pulled the wand away.
"It's about time," Sol whined angrily.
The second guard had been going through the attorney's briefcase at the desk. He passed it back to Sweet.
Briefcase clutched tightly, Sweet followed one of the guards to the interior steel door. Once they'd been buzzed through, Sweet preceded the guard into a narrow hallway. They passed into another, larger room.
There was a long table inside, bolted to the floor. Two chairs were arranged on each of the two longest sides.
"It'll be a couple more minutes," the guard said. He backed into the hallway and closed the door. The wait was shorter than usual. Five minutes later, the door opened once more. A new guard ushered a prisoner into the visitor's room.
The media reports of the strain prison had put on Don Anselmo Scubisci had been accurate.
The Manhattan Mafia Don had lost a considerable amount of weight. His shoulders were narrower, his face more angular and his protruding belly all but absent. Sol Sweet was amazed every time he saw this thinner Anselmo Scubisci. Put a paper bag of greasy peppers in his hand, and he'd be the spitting image of his father, the late Don Pietro.
The Dandy Don had at least retained the fastidious sense of style he'd always been famous for. His gray prison slacks were sharply creased, his shoes were polished and his shirt was clean and starched.
Anselmo Scubisci smiled at the sight of his lawyer.
"Solly, you're looking well," he said, wrapping his arms around the smaller man in a paternal hug. Sol Sweet didn't like to be touched, so he was relieved when the guard spoke up.
"Mr. Scubisci," the man warned.
"What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry," Don Scubisci said, releasing Sweet. He sat at the table. "Could we have some privacy, please?" Sol asked the guard.
The young man glanced into the hallway. "Make it quick, okay?" he suggested. He stepped from the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
"Nice kid," Scubisci confided when the door clanged shut. His voice had a faint rasp due to a brush with throat cancer two years before. "Maybe we can find a better-paying job for him when I get out."
Sol's face was serious. "No new news as far as that's concerned, I'm afraid," he said, sitting across from his client. "The appeal process has been very slow."
Don Anselmo scowled. "I'm a businessman, Solly, that's all. Why are they even wasting time on me when they should be going after real criminals?"
"Mr. Scubisci," Sweet said reasonably, "the charges against you, while totally without merit, are nonetheless very serious."
"Serious," Scubisci mocked, waving a contemptuous hand. He shook his head in disgust. "Let's just get on with this."
The lawyer nodded. Thumbing the hasps on his soft leather briefcase, he reached inside. "Another letter arrived. As per your standing order, I brought it to you at once."
Sweet pulled a business-size envelope from a larger yellow envelope. He slid it halfway across the table. Anselmo Scubisci placed a delicate hand flat over the airmail stamp.
"Did anyone else see this?" he said, his voice level.
"Just the usual person."
Scubisci nodded. He swept the letter over to his side of the table.
The first thing he checked was the seal. As usual, it had been stamped over the flap. The mark was still intact. The legend "A.S. c/o A. Scubisci" had been printed carefully in bright red ink on the front. The address was a special postal drop set up by Scubisci's lawyer.
Nodding his satisfaction, Don Scubisci left the letter near his elbow. He wouldn't tear the seal until he returned to the privacy of his cell.
"I also have another reason for this visit," Sol said somberly. "Some unfortunate news about a business associate of yours. Larry Fine. Apparently, he was murdered. A terrible, brutal crime, I'm told."
Scubisci buried the glimmer of a smile. His first in a long time. "When did this tragedy take place?"
"This morning," Sweet replied efficiently.
Don Anselmo nodded thoughtfully. "The world has gotten very dangerous. I hate to say this, Solly, but when I hear of all that's happening on the outside, I sometimes feel safer in here."