Continuing to read the latest data, Smith reached into the bottom desk drawer. Removing the cherry-red phone from its eternal resting place, he tucked the receiver between shoulder and ear.
"Yes, Mr. President," he said crisply.
"You hear about New York?"
The hoarse drawl would have been familiar to all Americans. In the past two years, it had become an irritant even to the those who had twice installed him in the highest office in the land.
"I am monitoring the situation even as we speak," Smith replied.
"And?"
Smith paused in his work, the telephone receiver balanced in the crook of his neck. His fingers rested at the edge of his desk. "And what, Mr. President?" he asked.
"What the hell's going on?" the President demanded.
"Very little," Smith admitted. "You are aware that this happened only twenty-two minutes ago?"
"Dammit, I know that," the President said impatiently. "But this isn't like those African embassies two years ago. This is goddamn New York City, Smith. That and Hollywood are my two fundraising cash cows. If they're pissed at me in Manhattan, it could seriously impact my legal-defense fund."
Smith's fingers dropped from his keyboard.
He wanted to be appalled. After all, there were bodies at that very moment still oozing warm blood on Manhattan sidewalks, and the President of the United States was more worried about how a domestic terrorist attack could affect his fund-raising apparatus. Yet, though he wanted to be shocked, Smith could not be. That sharp edge had been dulled by this particular President a long time ago.
"Plus the ball-and-chain's still got her eye on a Senate seat there," the President pressed. "Now. Six years from now. She won't even tell me for sure. Whatever you have to do to nail this thing down, do it fast. I didn't squeak out of that impeachment thing only to have something like this overshadow my last year in office."
Smith considered letting it pass. After all, they'd been down this same road more times than he cared to remember over the past two years. Yet a response was necessary.
Worn leather chair creaking in protest, Smith leaned forward. He touched a firm hand to his desk. "Mr. President," he began, as if reciting by rote. "I will take this opportunity to remind you once more that CURE is not here as a quick fix to any passing political crisis. Your seven predecessors all understood that. For nearly four decades, this has been the arrangement and it will remain thus as long as I am director."
The President's reply was preceded by an angry snort of air. "Get off your high horse, Smith," he growled. "They bombed New York, for Christ's sake. Stuff like this is right up your alley."
"Yes," Smith agreed, "but if CURE is to get involved, I want you to be clear why. It will be because I have determined that there is a threat warranting our attention. It will not be to protect your reputation with your donors or to aid your wife in a political campaign. Is that clear?"
There was a pause during which Smith expected to hear the President hang up the phone. That had happened a few times lately, as well. But the Commander in Chief remained on the line. When he spoke, it was as if he were biting off every sour word and spitting them at Smith.
"Do I still get to suggest assignments?"
"Suggest, yes," Smith admitted.
"Then I suggest you move the hell into New York and find out what's going on. And I suggest you put those two guys on it."
"I am afraid that is not possible at the moment."
"Why not?"
"One of them is already on assignment."
"Pull him off."
Smith tried to sound reasonable. "Mr. President, there is nothing as yet to direct him to. If this bombing proves to be part of a larger problem, I will bring him in. Until then, it is more important to learn precisely what we are dealing with. One of the earliest reports I read indicated that it may be no more than a ruptured gas line."
"Do you think that's what it is?"
"I am dubious," Smith admitted.
"So what are you arguing for? There's a bomber loose out there. I had TWA, Oklahoma City and Centennial Park take place on my watch. Those things dragged on forever. I want this one finished fast and neat. Is that understood?"
Smith's bloodless lips thinned. "Mr. President, do I need to repeat myself yet again?" A hint of impatience colored his lemony tone.
There was icy silence for a long moment. At last, America's Chief Executive spoke.
"It's within my power to disband your organization," the President of the United States said, hoarse voice flat.
Smith would not be baited. "Mr. President, if you wish for CURE to cease operations, you need only give the word."
There was another pause, during which Smith heard only the President's labored breathing. "You don't like me much, do you, Smith?" The words seemed to come from nowhere. Smith was surprised at the frankness of the question.
"It is not my place as director of this organization to either like or dislike a sitting President," he replied.
"But you'll be happy when I'm gone."
"Mr. President, I am no longer a young man. It is possible that you will outlast me."
"Anything is possible, Smith," said the President of the United States. "Anything at all."
The line went dead in Smith's hand.
Slowly, the CURE director replaced the receiver. He pushed the bottom desk drawer closed.
In the background, the grainy television continued to play its visions of horror. Bland announcers described the carnage in soft, measured tones. Smith was no longer listening. He turned slowly in his chair.
The one-way glass at the rear of his office overlooked the sprawling back lawn of Folcroft, which crept down a steady slope until it was swallowed up by Long Island Sound.
In his cracked leather chair, Smith watched the gently rolling water lap the shore.
The President was right. Smith didn't like him. Since taking over the helm of the secret organization, the director of CURE had found something to like in every President. There had been only two who, in his opinion, had neither decency nor integrity, but they were at least easy to get along with on a professional level.
Every man he had served under had been from the World War II generation. Smith's generation. Whether they were saints or sinners, he flattered himself to think that he had understood them all.
But this new Chief Executive was cut from a different cloth. There were those who said this younger man represented a tidal shift in American politics. And if he was the future of America, then perhaps at no other time was it more obvious that Smith was part of its past.
There was no doubt that the President's last words had been a cryptic threat to remove Smith from CURE. It didn't matter. Smith had known from the outset that that time would one day come. Lately, his aging body had been warning him that the time might nearly be at hand.
When his last day finally came, Smith would leave willingly, knowing that he had made a difference. To ensure that any secrets he possessed died with him, he would swallow the coffin-shaped pill hidden in the pocket of his gray vest. And with his last breath, Harold W. Smith would pray not only for America's future, but also for the men who would lead the nation there.
But all of that would come another day. Until then, he had work to do.
Tearing his eyes away from the rolling black waves, Smith spun quietly back to his computer.
Chapter 8
Remo heard about the bombing in New York on his car radio while driving back to the Cabbagehead Productions offices. He pulled over at the first pay phone he saw. When he got out of the car, the air in the street was thick with the smell of freshly brewed coffee.
Beside the booth, a street performer flailed away on an electric guitar. The screeching sounds emanating from the wobbling amplifier at his feet rattled windows five blocks away. To remove the noisy distraction, Remo punted the musician's amp half a mile down the street. It splintered into blessedly silent fragments in front of a coffee shop.