Gary Jenfeld led the pack of city council members. He had been pleading with Brandy Brand, but with Remo's arrival he turned his hopeful gaze to him. A container of runny Rad Vlad Lenin Caramel Blast ice cream was clutched in his hands.
"You've got to help us stop our Soviet general," Gary begged. "He's costing us a fortune."
Never had Remo's skepticism been vanquished so easily.
That Gary was worried about his bank account was all it took for Remo to instantly believe the sincerity of the retired ice cream manufacturer. Much more than a romantic's love of jackbooted totalitarianism and a burning hatred of all things American, naked greed was the thing that most inspired all unrepentant sixties radicals.
Convinced now of the Barkley city council's sincerity, Remo folded his arms across his chest. With hooded eyes he stared down at Gary Jenfeld.
"Okay," Remo demanded. "Exactly what the hell is going on around here?"
IT WAS 7:30 a.m. on the East Coast, and Mark Howard was taking the long way down to the Folcroft cafeteria.
Over the past day he had been stealing spare moments here and there to wander the halls of the sprawling building. He wanted to acquaint himself with the sanitarium. Pushing open the fire doors, he entered the third floor of the public wing where Folcroft's regular patients were housed.
His new laminated lapel pass identified him as associate director of Folcroft. Apparently, word of old Dr. Smith's new assistant had filtered down to the regular duty staff. Although Mark drew a few furtive glances as he strolled the halls, no one approached him.
Mark was struck yet again by what a tight ship Dr. Smith ran here at Folcroft. Somehow the staff seemed to be unaffected by the disease of laziness that had been spreading for years through the managed-care industry. The floors were scrubbed, the patients seemed well cared for and the staff went about their duties quietly and efficiently.
Mark was heading for the distant stairwell, ready for his usual breakfast of corn flakes and orange juice, when a muted sound caught his attention. It came from an open door to his right. Something made him stop and look.
An old woman in a paisley housecoat was propped up in a hospital bed. She was oblivious to Mark's presence. Her rheumy gaze was directed at a television set that was hooked to an angled shelf high in the corner of the room.
When Mark saw what she was watching, a deep notch formed above the bridge of his nose.
It was one of the regular network morning shows. A weatherman had just wrapped up his forecast, and the two hosts were talking about an upcoming celebrity interview.
As the cohosts jabbered, Mark Howard slowly shook his head. This was not right.
This particular network had been off the air in this part of the country since yesterday. The satellite system it used to broadcast its signal to the East Coast was down.
Since the previous evening, the only regular channels on at all were the Cable News Channel and Home Ticket Booth, both of which were owned by the massive telecommunications conglomerate AIC News-Wallenberg. So dire was the situation that HTB had suspended its regular programming of movies in favor of straight news. Somber-voiced anchors on loan from HTB's sister channel, CNC, had been warning the nation about the seriousness of the satellite outages.
But suddenly here was a normal morning show, with the people on it behaving as if there were nothing wrong.
Something big and shadowy flitted unbeckoned across the back of Mark Howard's mind.
"Excuse me, sir."
He hadn't heard the nurse approach. She was pushing a wheeled serving cart filled with breakfast trays. She wanted to enter the room, but he blocked her way. Mark took a numb step back into the hallway, allowing her to pass.
Another TV played across the hall. The volume was turned down too low for him to hear, but it looked like some kind of nature show. A grizzled fisherman in a red slicker was hauling a bass into a boat.
And as he watched the flickering image of the white-bearded man, the shadow in his mind cleared. In that moment something clicked for Mark Howard.
His breakfast forgotten, he turned and hurried back in the direction from which he'd come. When he burst through the doors into the administrative wing a few moments later, he was already at a sprint. Racing into his office, he quickly locked the door behind him. Hands shaking with excitement, he booted up his computer.
His fingers flew across his clattering keyboard. The Feeling was his guide as he instinctively searched through CURE's massive database. Within minutes he had all the information he needed.
Mark looked around for a way to print out the data.
Of course, there was none. The desk had no hidden printer, and Mark hadn't hooked up a remote one.
Pasting and clipping like mad, he assembled the data into one big text file, sending it as an interoffice e-mail through CURE's closed system. He had no sooner depressed the Send key before he was shutting off his computer and scurrying out from behind his desk.
When he hurried into the office of Smith's secretary, Eileen Mikulka wasn't at her post. Not bothering to knock, he barged into the Folcroft director's office.
As usual Smith was sitting behind his desk. His morning plate of toast was empty and pushed to one side. Half a cup of coffee sat cooling at his elbow.
Even before Mark had pushed inside, the CURE director had been watching the door expectantly. "It's Ted Schwartz," Mark blurted.
Smith pursed his lips unhappily. "Please close the door, Mr. Howard," he said tightly.
So excited was he, Mark had completely forgotten. "Oh," he said, nodding. He clicked the door shut, spinning back to the CURE director. "You got my e-mail?" he asked.
"Yes," Smith said, with a nod to his buried monitor.
"There's a lot there to get through, I know," Howard said. "I didn't have time to condense it. You can check it all out later." His wide face was flushed with triumph. "You know that thing I told you about before, the thing I said was the catalyst to everything that's been happening? It's Ted Schwartz, the CEO of AIC News-Wallenberg."
A flicker of something that might have been curiosity touched the gray depths of Smith's unblinking eyes.
"Why do you believe he is involved?" the old man asked.
"Something on TV tipped me," Mark said. "Actually, the fact that there was anything on TV other than the two News-Wallenberg networks. I knew CNC and HTB were still on, but I figured that was just luck of the draw. Their satellite just happened to not get hit. But then I saw some of the other networks were back on and, well, something just clicked. I did some checking, and I was right."
Smith leaned back in his chair. "Right about what?"
"About Schwartz," Mark said, "His company operates about one-seventh of the total number of satellites in orbit. Now guess how many of the entire News-Wallenberg conglomerate's satellites have gotten blown out of the sky?"
"I do not like to guess, Mr. Howard," the CURE director replied. "But I know that the answer is one."
"That's right," Mark said. "And that was just one of AIC's. I suspect that was just to make it all look good. And that's for Internet use, not broadcast. Besides, the rest of their network's already taking up the slack. Which brings me to the major point. The huge number of satellites they have. There's no logical reason why they should have as many as they do. The company's gone space-happy lately. They've put up over a hundred satellites in the past year. They were launching them like crazy from everyone who would take them. China, Russia, South America. And see, the thing is, with the GEOs they've put on these suckers, they only need two or three to blanket the whole country."
A thought suddenly occurred to Howard. "I'm sorry," he said shaking his head apologetically. "GEO stands for Geosynchronous Equatorial Orbit. They're locked in place in a distant orbit above the same spot. Since they're so far away from the planet, they can cover a greater area."
"I am familiar with the term," Smith said slowly. His earlier curiosity was giving way to mild intrigue.
"Well, th
en you understand that there's no way any outfit needs that many GEOs-even one as big as News-Wallenberg," Mark insisted. "So until two days ago they basically had a hundred satellites parked up there with nothing to do. Then they somehow get incredibly lucky when practically everyone else's systems suddenly come crashing down at the same time. Blammo, they're in business. Ted Schwartz is already starting to cut deals with his competitors to carry their signals for them. Probably for a lot of dough, maybe in exchange for stock to grow his own company. The exact details'll be worked out later, I'm sure."
Smith sat forward once more, folding his hands on the edge of his desk. "This sounds highly speculative," the CURE director said. "All of this could still be coincidental."
"Prepare for the biggest coincidence of all, then," Mark Howard said levelly. "The entire council of Barkley owns stock in News-Wallenberg."
"It is a large conglomerate," Smith said reasonably. "This could just be another coincidence." Mark noted that there was little strength to the old man's arguing. It seemed more that he was playing devil's advocate than anything else. Howard frowned.
"In that case, here's the final coincidence," Mark said. "Ted Schwartz funneled money to Barkley so that they could get that Russian particle-stream weapon smuggled over here. It started a year ago, just when they began launching all those satellites. All kinds of transfers from a private offshore account of Schwartz's were directed to Zen Bower. The particular bank and corporate manipulations are incredibly convoluted, but I'm sure that given a little time I can unknot them. Schwartz is your guy, Dr. Smith. I'm sure of it."
Smith considered the young man's words for a long time. As he did so, he seemed to be nodding almost in satisfaction. At long last he took a deep breath.
"You are correct," the CURE director said simply.
Mark blinked. "You believe me?" he asked. He was surprised. He didn't think it would be so easy. His enthusiasm rapidly returned. "Great," he said. "He lives out on Long Island. When your two field operatives get back from California, you can send them there."
"That will not be necessary," Smith said. "Theodore Schwartz was arrested by federal marshals in his Manhattan office approximately ten minutes ago."
Howard's face fell. Before he could ask his unspoken question, Smith broke in.
"I came to the same conclusion as you several hours ago," the older man explained. "Once I had assembled the facts, I turned them over to the proper authorities. They will handle Mr. Schwartz from here."
Mark's confusion was evident. "But what about those two guys of yours? I figured you'd be using them."
Smith's face grew serious.
"I am glad things have worked out as they have in this instance," the CURE director said somberly. "For it has given you an early opportunity to see what your job here will truly entail. CURE has a single mission, Mr. Howard. We exist as a final measure to stop those who would attempt to subvert the law for their own ends. But there is one goal we always try hardest to attain, and that is to aid the law, not replace the criminal justice system. For all the criminal activity that the mainframes sift through on a single day there are only a handful of occasions yearly that require special attention. Unless it constitutes a unique threat, we do not commit our agents to the field. And an attempt by a company-no matter how large-to corner a particular market does not warrant the risk of committing CURE's manpower." Howard absorbed the words, nodding slow understanding. "But they're already working on this," he said.
Smith took on the posture of a fussy schoolmarm. "Which is why this is a good learning experience," he said. "Schwartz may have started this, but the events he was catalyst to have spiraled out of control. The situation in Barkley is dangerous and does threaten national security."
Mark bit the inside of his cheek. "It makes sense to limit their exposure," he said slowly.
"The more they are used, the greater the risk to exposure," Smith said. "Therefore, they are used sparingly. As for the rest that goes on here, some would consider mundane the work that is done by CURE on a day-to-day basis."
Mark offered a thin smile. "You don't?"
Smith's back stiffened. "I do not," he said. "Our work is challenging, rewarding and vital."
Even after all these years there was a flame of passion in the old man's words. Ignited by honor and duty, it burned with a patriotic sense to do what was necessary regardless of all the personal tolls it had taken.
"I understand," Mark said softly. He began edging for the door. "Sorry I barged in here like that. I didn't know you'd already be on to all this. I figured you'd want the information as soon as possible."
Smith nodded sharply. "Your enthusiasm is commendable, Mark," he said. "However, please be more attentive to security protocols in the future. Always be certain that my door is fully closed before discussing CURE matters."
At the door Mark gave a little apologetic shrug before slipping out of the room.
Once the young man was gone, Smith leaned back in his chair once more. With a thoughtful expression he swiveled around. The morning light of winter glinted off the frothy surface of Long Island Sound. He watched the whitecapped black waves crash against the ice-rimmed shore.
He would never express the sentiment aloud, but Smith was impressed. He had severely limited Mark Howard's access to the basement mainframes, denying the young man entry into CURE's most sensitive computer data. Yet even without complete access, his new assistant had come to the same conclusion Smith had. As much as his abilities could be judged by this ease, the man's instincts were sound.
Smith allowed his thoughts to drift from Howard. Although the CURE director's work in the current matter was done, there was still a dire crisis on the West Coast.
It had been hours since he'd last heard from Remo. Fortunately, Boris Feyodov had gone quiet, as well. Through the previous night and into the new day there hadn't been a single e-mail note from the former general to either the Russian or American president. At first Smith thought this was the result of the malfunctioning phone system, but the satellite attacks had abruptly ceased. All had gone silent after the destruction of the Mir station.
He would have assumed success on the part of CURE's enforcement arm, but the silence had lingered for more than twelve hours and Remo had yet to contact Smith.
No, Feyodov was waiting. For what, Smith had no idea.
With tired eyes Smith watched the waves roll in across the Sound.
With any luck the resolution would come quickly and Smith could turn his thoughts to the future. Assuming, that is, the events played out in the world's favor and there was a future to be had.
Chapter 27
By the time Gary Jenfeld finished explaining what was driving events in Barkley, Remo Williams was shaking his head in disbelief.
"You mean to tell me we're on a rocket ride to Armageddon because some billionaire bumwad wanted to corner the market on space trinkets?" he demanded.
They were all still standing out on the sidewalk in front of the boardinghouse. A weak smear of pink and orange stained the farthest edge of the bleary California sky. To the north, the great statue of Huitzilopochtli turned from midnight black to shadowy gray. Somewhere beneath, hidden by trees, was the city hall.
Gary cringed at Remo's accusatory tone. "You need money to save the ozone and protect the rain forest," he argued weakly. "And presidential legal-defense funds don't pay for themselves, you know. But none of that matters now. Our general's gone all Jack D. Ripper on us. He isn't following the rules anymore. You've got to do something."
"What I ought to do is get on the first stage out of Dodge and let you mopes figure out how to convince the incoming wave of Russian nukes not to blow you sky high," Remo said sourly. "Here's a thought. Get a ladder and try doodling peace symbols on all the nose cones."
"We cannot leave," Anna said firmly.
Remo shot her a withering look. "Said the chick who left without a trace for ten years," he said sarcastically.
"I agree with the ol
d woman," the Master of Sinanju said, nodding to Anna. "Smith would not want us to leave."
"If this is some fresh way of angling for a new house..." Remo warned, raising an accusing finger. But the look on his teacher's face told him otherwise. Remo dropped his hand. "Fine. We'll stay. But if we both wind up getting incinerated, don't come bitching to me."
"I don't think the Russians will attack us," Gary said.
Remo's eyes were flat. "Don't you people ever get tired of saying that?" he asked, annoyed. "Back in the sixties, when the Russians weren't invading someone they were waving their big Commie willies at everybody under the sun. They did it all on your watch, and all any of you did was slap on blinders and mulch your dorm-room pot plants while whistling 'Eve of Destruction.'"
"You don't understand," Gary said, shaking his head urgently. "Feyodov stopped shooting the gun yesterday. Right after the two of you broke into city hall." He nodded from Remo to Chiun. "I'm not sure, but I think if the Russians were gonna attack because of what happened to their space station, they would have done it by now."
Remo allowed the words to sink in. He hated to admit it, but Gary was making sense. He glanced at Anna.
"He is right," she said simply. "My president sees himself as a man of action. If his impulse was to attack, he would not wait twelve hours to do so."
"Maybe the machine broke down," Brandy Brand suggested.
Gary shook his head firmly. "No," he said. "He charged it up one last time, but he's been sitting on it ever since. It's like he's waiting for something."
Remo and Chiun exchanged tight glances. It was Remo who gave voice to their shared unspoken thought.
"Us?" he asked.
The old Korean nodded. "He knew of Sinanju," Chiun agreed with a puzzled frown.
"And he saw what happened to us when he fired that thing," Remo said with a scowl. "Who the hell is this guy, and what's his beef with us? We can't get within a country mile of him, and he knows it."
Gary Jenfeld looked anxiously at the rest of the Barkley city council. Fear filled their grubby faces. "You have to figure out something," Gary said desperately to Remo. "I mean, Feyodov's gone psycho. It's like he's got a death wish or something."
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