Sitting on the edge of the bed, he slipped his feet back in his dress shoes. He was lacing them back up when his wife stuck her head around the corner.
"Are you all right, Harold?" Maude asked, concerned.
"Yes, I'm fine." Smith asked, "Why?"
"That noise you were just making with your mouth. I thought something was wrong."
Smith frowned. "Noise?" he asked. "I don't believe I was making any noise, dear."
He picked up a pair of white shoes from the floor under the chair, just where he'd left them the previous night. Carrying the shoes under one arm, he kissed his wife on the cheek once more and headed back out into the hallway.
As he stepped down the stairs, he was unaware that he had started making the same horrible noise once more.
Behind him, Maude Smith watched from the top of the stairs. As he headed briskly out the door, she saw her husband's lips purse, saw his ashen cheeks puff out.
Maude recognized the noise this time. Her Harold was actually whistling. She shook her head in astonishment
"Will wonders never cease?" she asked the walls with the old white paint that, although long yellowed from age, Harold refused to have repainted. The paint had been guaranteed to last thirty years, which would not be up for another two years. Even though the manufacturer had long gone out of business, Harold refused to pay to have the walls repainted until precisely thirty years had passed. Anything sooner than that would be an extravagance. Like whistling.
Maude heard the awful sound coming from outside. A dog two houses away was howling at the noise as her husband backed his station wagon out of the driveway.
Still shaking her head in amazement, but grateful to the Almighty just the same for her Harold's new outlook, Maude Smith climbed carefully back down the creaky old stairs.
SMITH COULD NOT THANK the Almighty for this morning away from work. Not that he didn't believe. A healthy fear of God had been inculcated in Harold Smith at an early age. But thanks to the requirements of his job as director of CURE, Smith had long before determined that he could not in good conscience involve the Deity in the matters of his adult life. Smith didn't bother God, and when the time of judgment came for him, Smith hoped the Almighty would understand the necessity of his many transgressions.
No, if any thanks were due at all, they went to Smith's assistant.
Mark Howard was a diligent young man who from the start had insisted that he relieve some of his employer's heavy burden. Thanks to Mark Howard, Harold Smith was able to take off two early afternoons every week to enjoy dinner with Maude. And thanks to his assistant, Smith was about to indulge in a guilty pleasure that he had given up long ago.
Smith's house bordered one of the most exclusive country clubs on the East Coast. As he drove along, he caught glimpses of well-tended greens between houses and trees.
Around the block and up through the gates, Smith drove through the main entrance to the Westchester Golf Club.
There were plenty of spaces in the parking lot. Smith chose one recently vacated near the clubhouse. He changed into his golf shoes beside his car and took his wheeled bag of clubs from the back seat of the station wagon where he had carefully placed them earlier that morning.
He was whistling again as he headed for the clubhouse.
Although Smith had been paying his yearly membership dues without fail for the past forty years, he had been to the club only a handful of times in the past three decades.
When CURE had first been established by a President now long dead, Smith had been a CIA analyst living in Virginia. He had dutifully accepted his post, moving his family to Rye.
Smith had taken over directorship of Folcroft Sanitarium, a private mental institution and convalescent home in town. Folcroft was the cover for CURE, the agency that didn't officially exist. As part of his own cover, Smith had early on involved himself in his community. Not too much. But in the early 1960s, to be completely removed from one's community affairs was to invite suspicion, he reasoned.
One of the first things Smith did after settling in at Folcroft was join the Westchester Golf Club.
Almost straight away he was invited to be part of a regular foursome. It seemed three other members who happened to play on the same day as Smith-a doctor, a lawyer and a judge-had recently lost their fourth. The new director of Folcroft Sanitarium was more than welcome to join them.
It was perfect for Smith's plan of fitting in. He was the perfectly ordinary director of Folcroft Sanitarium, playing a perfectly ordinary game with perfectly ordinary companions. Nothing suspicious, everything aboveboard.
For almost two years in the early 1960s Smith had played regularly with the same three men. But then, slowly, he began missing dates.
The demands of his work. There was always some crisis that needed attention, always a catastrophe that needed to be averted. For a time the men would call his secretary asking where Smith was. Once or twice Smith did manage to get away to join them. Mostly he refused. Then one day he suddenly realized that it was the 1970s and his old golf companions had stopped calling almost a decade before.
It no longer mattered. Maude was active enough in the community for them both. And, luckily, over the years Americans had become more isolated. Gone were the days when neighbors knew every face on the block and the involvement of business leaders in the community was practically a requirement. As the century wound to a close, it was possible for people to live next door to one another for years without ever exchanging hellos. And the director of a private sanitarium could spend his every waking hour locked away in his office without ever venturing out to attend a city council meeting or to play even a single round of golf.
But things had changed once again-finally, blessedly-and Harold Smith, in the twilight of his life, was once more able to step out into the sunshine of the Westchester Golf Club. And to feel good in the process.
Drawing his clubs behind him, Smith entered the clubhouse. He found a smiling, fortyish woman with short blond hair and a tag on her jersey identifying her as staff.
"Good morning," Smith said. "Could you tell me if Dr. Glass is playing today?"
"Doctor who?" the woman asked.
"Dr. Robert Glass. He plays here every Wednesday."
"I'm sorry, but there's no Dr. Glass here."
Smith raised a thin brow. "You seem quite certain. You didn't even check."
"Actually, I don't really have to," the woman said. "I know everyone who's playing today. In fact, I know everyone who is a member at the club and we don't have a Dr. Glass."
Smith had met this kind of stubbornness before. He had seen it in all walks of life, from government bureaucrats to restaurant hostesses. People loved to see themselves as important and powerful. Obviously this woman's job as gatekeeper to the elite of Westchester County had gone to her head. But she had met her match today, for Harold Smith was in a rare good mood. The kind of mood where he would enjoy bringing an arrogant woman with clipboard delusions of grandeur down a peg or two.
He smiled. An uncomfortable twist of his thin lips. "Young lady, do you know who I am?" he asked.
"I'm sorry, no. Are you a friend of a member?"
"I am a member," Smith said. "Dr. Harold W. Smith. You will find that I have been a member of this club for over forty years. And since it is obvious you do not know me, we can safely dispense with your claim that you know everyone who belongs. Therefore you will concede that it is possible you've made a mistake and that Dr. Glass is a member, as well. Possibly he is even here today. Please check." Smith's acid tone did not allow for refusal. The woman felt a red rash of embarrassment color her cheeks.
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean-"
She quickly checked her reserved list. When she couldn't find a Dr. Glass there, she went behind the counter and checked the computerized membership rolls. Again she came up empty. Fortunately, the club director-a man Smith recognized from years before-happened to be passing by.
The club director had been a young
assistant back then. He was older now, with white hair and a dark tan. Deep furrows of laugh lines crimped the corners of his eyes. When he was told there was a problem with a missing Westchester Golf Club member, the laugh lines blossomed, forming deep, sympathetic crevices. He frowned sadly.
"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Dr. Smith," the man said, "but Dr. Glass passed away."
Smith blinked. "Oh," he said.
He was surprised he hadn't heard. His wife generally kept him up-to-date on such matters. Although Smith was the first to admit that as the years passed he found himself paying less and less attention to his wife's nightly reports on their community. Smith was usually distracted by CURE matters and generally tuned out Maude Smith, offering only a few "yes, dears" whenever they seemed warranted.
Obviously he had missed the death of his old golfing companion Robert Glass. He would have to send his widow a sympathy card.
"When did he die?" Smith asked.
The country club director checked his chart. "Ah, 1987," he replied.
"Oh," Smith said again. Perhaps it was too late for a sympathy card. "Is his wife still a member?"
"She moved to Florida. I believe she passed away last year. I could check if you'd like."
"Don't bother," Smith said, clearing his throat. "There were two other men Dr. Glass and I used to golf with. George Garner and Phillip Lassiter. Are they still, er, members?"
He could tell the answer from the fresh deeply sympathetic look that came over the man's face.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Smith. Judge Garner passed on about five years ago." He pitched his voice low. "Actually, it happened here. He'd just played eighteen holes and came back to the clubhouse. It happened in the locker room. He just sort of fell over. Eighty-six years old. In remarkable shape for a man his age. We were all shocked and saddened."
Smith's earlier good mood had long evaporated. "Yes, thank you," he said tightly. "I'm sorry to have bothered you." He turned to go.
"Mr. Lassiter is still with us," the club director offered brightly. "An attorney here in Rye, correct?"
"That's right," Smith said, turning back.
"In fact, I saw him here this morning." The country club director's smile of optimism faded behind a somber cloud. "Oh, but you probably meant the father."
"Father?"
"Phillip Lassiter Senior. The name of the firm was changed to Lassiter and Lassiter years ago. The father and son are-were-both lawyers. Have you driven past their downtown offices in the last-oh, twenty years or so? That big sign out front?"
Now that he mentioned it, Smith had seen the name change driving through downtown Rye. He had noted it when it happened and then filed it away and forgot about it. The Lassiter and Lassiter, Attorneys at Law sign was now part of the background of his everyday life-just something he drove past and ignored.
"Yes," Smith said, already knowing where this was going.
"The second Lassiter is your Mr. Lassiter's son, also Phillip. Mr. Lassiter Junior is a member here, but I'm afraid Mr. Lassiter Senior is, well, no longer with us. Lung cancer, I'm afraid. He's been gone almost ten years. A shame, really. Such a gentleman. Never an unkind word for anyone. We all missed him dearly when he passed."
"Yes," Smith said. "Thank you. Excuse me, but I have a tee time."
Turning, Smith headed for the door, pulling his golf bag behind him. The wheels squeaked.
"Your clubs are wonderful, Dr. Smith," the club director called behind him. "Very old. Almost antiques, really. You don't see very many like those around these days."
"Yes," agreed Dr. Harold W. Smith, who, as he headed out the gleaming glass door into the spring sunshine, no longer felt the urge to whistle.
Chapter 11
The ivy-covered brick building that was Folcroft Sanitarium was nestled amid budding birch and lateblooming spring maples on the shore of Long Island Sound. In a small rear office on the second floor of the administrative wing, Mark Howard sat behind his scarred oak desk.
If he leaned over far enough, Mark could have just glimpsed the sparkling waters of the Sound out his office window. Mark didn't look out the window this day.
Intent brownish-green eyes were locked on the computer monitor on his desk. The monitor was attached by cable through the floor to four mainframes hidden behind a secret panel in the sanitarium's basement.
With a concerned expression on his wide face, Mark studied the data that scrolled across his computer screen.
At just under six feet tall, Howard was thin with broad shoulders. His face had the pleasant corn-fed wideness of America's heartland, ruddy at the cheeks. He lent the impression-even sitting-of a man who was always just a few seconds late for wherever he was going.
If some lost visitors were to accidentally step in from the hall, they would be singularly unimpressed by the average-looking young man in a small office. There were millions more just like him in banks and boardrooms around the nation. Bored at the seeming blandness of both man and office, they would have left, never realizing that the man they had so easily dismissed as average was arguably the second most powerful man in the world.
The assistant director of CURE was scanning the latest reports out of New York. He didn't like what he saw.
More cases of strange attacks were coming in hourly.
Dr. Smith had sent Remo and Chiun to investigate early that morning. Their plane had touched down in New York more than an hour ago. By then Dr. Smith had already left the office.
Mark was loath to call the CURE director back. After all, until Remo reported in, there was nothing Smith could do except sit and worry. For now, that was Mark Howard's job.
The assistant CURE director had gladly accepted that particular burden as just another one of his duties. For more than forty years Dr. Smith had worked tirelessly as director of CURE. When Mark had arrived at Folcroft more than two years ago, Smith had been showing all the signs of a man slowly surrendering to life's twilight. That was gone now.
Since Mark had come aboard, Smith had regained his focus and energy. Only a small part of that had to do with having someone now to share the burden he had for so long carried alone. No, the thing that had most reinvigorated the CURE director was his protege. He now had someone from a new generation with whom he could share thoughts, guidance and wisdom. In Mark Howard, Harold Smith was reborn.
Mark had seen the slow metamorphosis in his employer and understood the psychology behind the change. And in every way he could-large and small-he had determined to keep Harold Smith's burden light. America owed the older man that. And Mark Howard would do his part to repay the debt.
Howard pulled his eyes from his monitor. There had been another attack, this one at a delicatessen in Manhattan.
Mark's right eye was starting to ache. Staring at the computer was beginning to take its toll. He had always had better than twenty-twenty vision. Thanks to CURE, a few more years and he would have to think about glasses.
He was rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand when the black phone on his desk jangled to life. Glancing sharply, he noted that it was the contact line. Dr. Smith had had all calls rerouted to his assistant's office while he was away, including the special line.
Mark grabbed up the phone, pressing the blinking blue light. "Hello," he said.
"We've got major problems here, kid," Remo said without preamble. "I need to talk to Smith."
"Dr. Smith isn't here right now," Mark said.
"What are you talking about? It's one in the afternoon. Smith's never not there at one in the afternoon. What is he, counting cotton swabs in the supply closet? Get off your duff and go get him. Now."
"He's not here, Remo," Mark insisted. "He's gone to play golf. He mentioned that he was going to try to hook up with some guys he used to play with."
"Oh, for Pete's sake. Perfect timing, Smitty," Remo grumbled to himself. "Can you page him?"
"Yes," Mark said. "Remo, what is going on there?"
There was an impatient hiss on the line. "
You have access to Smith's computer records?"
"Yes."
Remo said only three words: "Dr. Judith White." Mark spun to his computer. Short fingers moved swiftly over the clattering keyboard. In seconds he had pulled up the relevant CURE records.
"Judith White. Geneticist. Worked for a company called BostonBio on the Bos Camelus-Whitus." The stir of memory strained his voice. "Oh, no," Mark said worriedly. "I remember this. It was in the news right around Dolly the sheep. This Dr. White was into bizarre genetic engineering, wasn't she? She went on some kind of rampage three years ago in Boston. Oh. According to this encryption in Dr. Smith's notes, you and Chiun stopped her."
"Not good enough apparently. It looks like she's behind what's going on here."
Mark paused a beat. "Remo, it says here that Judith White is dead. I'm assuming you had a hand in that, too."
"And an arm."
"Excuse me?"
"An arm," Remo said. "As in I ripped her arm out of its socket just before she fell three stories and had a million tons of burning factory collapse on her. Sue me for assuming she'd gone to that great litter box in the sky."
Mark nodded. "Very well, I'll page Dr. Smith." He checked the time in the corner of his computer screen. "It will take him a good twenty minutes to get back here. Stay at this number. We'll call you back."
"Make it snappy," Remo said.
The assistant CURE director hung up the phone. He fished a scrap of paper with Smith's pager number from his jacket pocket. He glanced at his monitor. The blob of a cursor blinked over the J in Judith White's name.
"Sorry, Dr. Smith," Mark Howard lamented. "I hope you enjoyed your first five minutes off in forty years."
Exhaling, he reached once more for the phone.
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, it had not gone as poorly as Smith had imagined.
He was rusty the first few holes, as would be expected. For working out the kinks, he had been generous keeping score-golf had always been the one aspect of his life where Smith's otherwise scrupulous honesty failed completely and utterly. But by the seventh and eighth he felt his game returning, almost as if he'd never given it up. By the ninth he barely had to cheat at all.
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