Smith stared down at the black surface of his desk. In it was his dead computer. His lifeline to the outside world.
Harold, kill Remo.
He saw the words floating in the air before him. They were fading from his vision. Like the ghostly afterimage of something that had been stared at too long.
This was the disaster he had feared after the attack on Remo in the Harlem police station. He had been wrong not to fear the worst. Someone knew not only of Remo, but also of Smith. That simple realization was a molten ball of lead tossed into the pit of Smith's acid-churned stomach.
The only thing that linked the two men was CURE. To know of Remo and Smith was certainly to know of CURE.
Not only was America's last line of defense teetering on the edge of exposure, but also thanks to the particular technology at the hands of its enemy, CURE was now flying blind.
When the knock came at the door, Smith was so numb he didn't even hear his own voice call "Come in."
Mrs. Mikulka stuck her head in the room. She seemed relieved to see that he was back to wearing his suit jacket the more traditional way.
"Can I get you something, Dr. Smith?" his secretary asked with motherly concern. "Tea or soup?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said woodenly.
"Let me know if you change your mind. Oh, by the way, a friend of yours called a little while ago. At least he said he was a friend. He didn't give his name, I'm afraid."
The words barely registered. The caller was probably just a telemarketer. It couldn't have been a friend of Smith's. The only real friend Harold W. Smith had ever had was long dead and buried.
"Thank you, Mrs. Mikulka."
She smiled warmly. "I'm so glad everyone is feeling better. You both gave us all quite a scare this week."
"Both?" Smith asked, frowning.
"You and Mr. Howard," Eileen Mikulka explained. "He came back to work a few hours ago. I'm so happy he seems fine." She scrunched up her face. "The doctor said you were hypnotized. Was that what was wrong with Mr. Howard?"
Smith had been trying to sort through his tangled thoughts. His secretary's words helped clear the fog. "I'm not sure," Smith said. He sat up straight. "Please excuse me, Mrs. Mikulka. I have work to do."
Nodding apologetically, his secretary left the office. Once the door was closed, Smith drew open his bottom drawer. His automatic was sitting where Remo had dropped it.
There was only one man new at CURE. One man who knew of Remo and Smith. A man who had just released one of the most dangerous foes the covert agency had ever faced.
Smith had been hoping for an explanation for Jeremiah Purcell's escape. He now had it. Betrayal. Smith slipped the gun into his pocket and left the office.
Mrs. Mikulka seemed surprised to see him reappear so soon. Smith said nothing to his secretary as he made his way out into the hallway.
Down the hall, he paused in front of Mark Howard's office. He could hear voices murmuring inside. Smith's assistant should not have anyone in his office. He probably thought he was safe. The young man assumed his employer was still tucked out of the way in the basement.
Smith took the gun out, holding it low near his thigh.
He took his key ring from his pocket. Careful to keep the keys from jangling together, he slipped his passkey into the lock with his free hand.
Taking a deep breath, he twisted the knob and kicked the door open. He jumped in after it, gun raised.
Mark Howard was sitting behind his desk, eyes trained on his computer monitor. When the door flew open, the assistant CURE director looked up, startled. "Dr. Smith?"
There was someone sitting on the edge of Howard's desk. When he saw who it was, Smith blinked.
"Remo?" the CURE director asked, confused. His gun sank uncertainly.
Remo was searching the CURE director's gray eyes. He seemed satisfied with what he found. "Think you can hold off shooting me this time, Smitty? And while you're at it, close the door." Smith didn't know what else to do. He lowered his gun a few inches and shut the door behind him.
"Is something wrong, Dr. Smith?" Mark Howard asked. His greenish-brown eyes were trained on the wavering barrel of his employer's automatic.
Remo answered for the CURE director. "He thinks you've gone rotten on us, Junior." To Smith he said, "Don't worry about the kid, Smitty. We've already covered this. He didn't know what he was doing with Purcell."
The gun inched lower. "Are you certain?" Smith asked.
"Yeah," Remo said. "You know we can tell if people are lying. I turned the juice up high, and the kid didn't crack. He let Purcell go, but he didn't mean to.
"But Mark should still be under sedation," Smith said.
"I woke him up," Remo said. "I needed someone who could run your dippy computers without trying to kill me. And whatever was wrong with him before, he seems fine now. You know Purcell's got some weird stuff he can do with his mind. I'm thinking he found some way to tap into the kid's brain. I still don't know why he picked him and not someone else."
Smith glanced at Mark Howard. There was a look of fresh concern on the young man's face, this time tinged with guilt.
And for the first time Smith understood. Truly understood. The sleeplessness, the troubling dreams, all of it. He realized now that Mark Howard had almost certainly not been in control of his own actions when he let Jeremiah Purcell free. The CURE director wanted to question further on the Purcell matter, but Remo interrupted.
"We've got more than one old bad guy to worry about, Smitty. The guy who tried to get you to blow my head off? Turns out it isn't a guy at all. It's Friend."
Remo's words registered with dull shock. "Friend? How is that possible?"
"Beats me, but it's him."
Smith's mind reeled. "Oh, my," he said. "My secretary just told me that a friend called my office this afternoon."
"Should have been your tip-off right there," Remo said. "The only friends you've got are those cold-blooded computers you've got hidden downstairs."
"The chips that held Friend's program," Smith said. "You said you got rid of all the VLSI chips."
"I went back to that abandoned building a year after the last time we had a run-in with him. Someone must have gotten to the chip with his program on it first."
Smith's face steeled. "If that's the case, then we have to stop him. I can't use my computer. Mark, since Friend doesn't know about you, you will have to be my eyes."
"Already found him," Remo said.
Smith raised a surprised eyebrow. "You have?"
"I think I have," Mark cautioned. "Robbie MacGulry's flagship station in Australia appears to be the source for the subliminal signals. I think he's using the Vox satellite system to relay the commands. If we can shut that down, we should be able to pull the plug on the signals."
"Robbie MacGulry is in on this?" Smith asked wearily.
"Look, Smitty," Remo said with an impatient sigh, ''you can catch up on everything once I'm gone. I was just having the kid book me a flight to Australia."
"I didn't know how long you'd be out, Dr. Smith," Mark said apologetically. "And this seemed too urgent to wait."
As he spoke, the phone on his desk jangled to life. When Mark answered it, he talked for only a few seconds. When he replaced the receiver, his face was flushed. He hurriedly pressed the hidden stud under his desk, lowering his computer monitor from sight.
"That was Mrs. Mikulka," the young man said. "She just got a call from downstairs. Dr. Gerling wants you down there right away, Dr. Smith." He glanced at Remo. "It's Chiun."
Remo said not a word. Face hard, he darted for the door. Mark hurried after him. Smith was the odd man out. He whirled as Remo raced into the hall. "What's wrong with Master Chiun?" Smith asked Howard.
"I'll explain on the way," the assistant CURE director replied anxiously. With a sickly smile, he pointed to the gun that was still in his employer's hand. "And by the sounds of what Remo told me, maybe you better bring that along."