But inside, some thing or things moved and squirmed and made soft, indescribable sounds. Horrified, Smith approached. He pulled away a panel to expose the WORM arrays and stepped back with a pungent curse escaping his lips.
The WORM platters were literally alive with crawling earthworms. Blind, limbless things, they crawled among the circuit boards, writhed among the microchips, tiny mouths munching on the disk drives that were stacked around the central spindle.
The drives had been literally gnawed like lettuce leafs.
"My God!" he said hoarsely. "So that's what's wrong with the system. The worms have not been fed properly."
SMITH SNAPPED AWAKE with the first red rays of dawn setting Long island Sound ablaze.
It was not their gory light coming through his sealed eyelids that finally wrenched him out of sleep. It was the fact that his nightmares had for once taken the shape of concrete images. That had never happened before, and it startled his brain to wakefulness. More than anything else, this frightened Harold Smith, who disliked change.
In all the years, from his days with the OSS through the CIA to CURE, Smith had been able to count on untroubled sleep. No man he ever killed in the performance of his duty or had ordered executed in his capacity as head of CURE had ever returned to plague his dreams.
But the failure of his computer system had shaken him to his core. As he sat on the long couch fumbling his shoes on, Smith understood that he might never know a decent night's sleep for the rest of his days. He had failed his country and his President. He didn't know how, but he had. It was intolerable.
Smith walked stiffly over to his oak desk, retrieving his coat and vest on the way. Staring unseeingly over the sound, he put them on, patting the watch pocket of the vest for his coffin-shaped poison pill. It was still there. For thirty years it had been there.
Woodenly Smith took his seat. Reflexively he reached for the concealed stud that would bring the CURE terminal humming into view. He caught himself in time. Thirty years of routine was a long habit to break. There was no need to check the system again. He had been through that.
Instead, he cleared his throat and opened the righthand desk drawer after unlocking it.
He brought out an AT el telephone. It was as red as a fire engine, and instead of a dial there was only a blank face.
It was the dedicated line to the White House. For thirty years, Smith had used this as a secure communications link to eight sitting US. presidents.
Now he was about to call the White House for what he feared would be the final time.
It was 6:00 a.m. Not too early to call a President. They were usually up before first light. This latest President had a habit of rising later, but Smith felt certain that he would be up by now.
Smith placed an unsteady hand on the red receiver. He had only to lift it and automatically an identical phone in the Lincoln Bedroom would ring in sympathy.
He hesitated. Smith had reported many successes and failures to many Presidents over the long decades. But he had never been in the position of having to report the catastrophic failure of CURE. He sat there, sweat building up in his palms as he groped for the proper words.
He cleared his throat again.
And the telephone rang. His hand came away from the red receiver as if stung. Adjusting his tie, Smith picked it up and spoke.
"Yes, Mr. President?" he said unemotionally.
The voice of the President was hoarse. "Smith, I need you."
"What is the problem, Mr. President?"
"We've lost a U.S. submarine in enemy waters." Smith frowned.
"Enemy?"
"The submarine was on routine manoeuvres in the Pacific. It must have strayed into North Korean territorial waters. They radioed that they had made contact with a Korean naval vessel. Then nothing. That was ten hours ago."
Smith's eye went stark. "The Harlequin?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"My God!"
"That's how I feel about it," the President said bitterly. "It gets worse. We've contacted Pyongyang, and they claim their ships report no naval contacts. They claim they've not captured a U.S. sub or encountered it."
"My God," croaked Smith.
"When I heard it was North Korea, I thought of you. One of your people hails from that neck of the woods. I thought maybe he could do something for us."
"Mr. President," said Harold Smith. "The Harlequin was in North Korean waters on my authority."
"Your authority! You're not Navy." The President caught himself. "Are you?"
"No, I am not. But as you know, it is my responsibility to make yearly payments to the Master of Sinanju. At his insistence, these are made in gold bullion and dropped off at his village."
"We pay in gold. How much?"
"Several million. The exact amount needn't concern you."
"You don't have a deficit the size of the Pacific to contend with," the President said testily.
"I am aware of the nation's financial difficulties," Smith said bitterly. In all his life he had never owed more than the balance of his mortgage and monthly utility bills.
"How long has this been going on?" the President asked tightly.
"Since you first shook hands with the President who set up CURE," Smith said crisply.
The President was silent. In the background Smith could hear the muted sound of a classic-rock radio station.
Smith said, "There is an understanding between Pyongyang and Sinanju, Mr. President. The submarine is not to be molested."
"Was that understanding with Premier Kim Il Sung?"
"It was."
"Intelligence reports that he is failing and his son is wielding more and more power these days."
"Kim Jong Il is mentally unstable," Smith said. "It could explain this development."
"Development! Smith, this in a full-blown crisis. I've just lost an attack submarine with a full crew, and no one knows where it is. Do you realize what this means?"
"I do. But we have a deeper problem, Mr. President."
"Don't say that."
"The essential question is not whether or not the Harlequin has been lost, but whether it was lost before or after it off-loaded the gold."
"Why is that more of a crisis than the loss of a Narwhal-class attack submarine?"
"Because," said Harold Smith, "if the gold was lost with the sub, we will have to send another submarine with an identical amount if we are to retain the services of the Master of Sinanju."
"Damn," said the President. "We can't risk another submarine. The North Korean navy's probably got their own subs out in the Yellow Sea looking for ours."
"Exactly," said Harold Smith in a grim voice. "Are you saying we can't use your people?"
"It may come down to that," said Smith.
"Smith, your country is depending on you. You've got to come through for us."
Harold Smith hesitated. This was a development as grave as the failure of his computer system. It had international ramifications, and the lives of over a hundred U.S. seamen hung in the balance.
The time may have come to dissolve CURE. Only the President could make that decision. But it was abundantly clear to Harold W Smith that the President of the United States would not give that order until the Harlequin matter was resolved.
"I will do what I can, Mr. President," he said at last. And Smith hung up.
REMO WILLIAMS was awakened by the distant sound of the telephone ringing.
Three telephones, actually. The one in the downstairs kitchen and the second one in the upstairs meditation tower. The third was two rooms away with its ringer shut off. Still, Remo could hear the electronic pulses futilely trying to trigger its bell. Since he had decided to sleep on the farthest room in the eastern wing of the condo, and Remo was hearing it all through many layers of wall and ceiling, he simply willed his acute hearing not to hear the ringing anymore and rolled over.