"I will leave that up to you," said the doctor, replacing his stethoscope in his black bag. "Contact me when you have succeeded. I want to leave here while it is still dark. A man of my reputation cannot be seen coming and going from this place."
"You are a good German," he told the doctor.
There was hope. After all these years, there was hope.
Chapter 10
In his office at Folcroft Sanitarium, Dr. Harold W. Smith rubbed his eyes furiously. Replacing his steel-rimmed glasses, he returned to the mocking video screen.
A light snow was falling on Long island Sound. Smith had no eyes for its quiet beauty.
Moment by moment, unusual reports flashed onto the silent screen. Tapped off wire-service and network newsfeeds, only CURE-potential events showed on the screen. Smith had long ago worked out a system that enabled the dumb, unthinking computer to separate human-interest and other miscellaneous events-the chaff of the daily news-from the wheat, possible CURE priority material. Buzzwords were the key to the program, buzzwords like "death," "murder," "crime." When the computer found those words, it filed those reports.
Smith read each time the screen flashed a new paragraph.
In Boston, a twenty-two-year-old girl was shot twice in the chest in a drug-related murder. The previous week she had escaped a similar attack by unknown persons brandishing an Uzi machine gun.
In Miami, two undercover vice cops were missing for the third day and presumed dead.
In San Francisco, military police surrounded an Air Force transport upon its arrival from the Far East. The pilots claimed they had a mysterious Oriental stowaway, but when the plane was boarded, no trace of the stowaway was found.
And for the fourth day in a row, no one named Harold Smith had been found murdered anywhere in the United States.
Smith brought up the U.S. map on which the trail of the Harold Smith killings was plotted. The line stopped in Oakham, Massachusetts. Cold. No other Harold Smiths had died in that state, as Smith had projected. Or in Rhode Island. Or in Connecticut.
What did it mean?
Had the killings stopped as mindlessly as they had begun? Or was the unknown killer simply still traveling to his next victim? In four days, he could have entirely covered Rhode Island, the smallest state in the Union. Or Connecticut, for that matter.
Unless, of course, the killer intended to bypass those states. Unless he was already in New York State. Unless he was in the vicinity of Rye, New York.
Smith had ordered the security guards attached to Foleroft on high alert, but they were not equipped to handle anything this serious. Folcroft was an ordinary institution, and the guards believed they were guarding an expensive health facility. Smith, with the resources of the United States government at his command, could have ordered Folcroft surrounded by crack units of the National Guard. Navy helicopters could, in less than an hour, be deployed in the air over the grounds.
And by the seven-o'clock news, CURE's cover would be exposed to the harsh spotlight of the media, if not blown entirely. There was no way to hide Smith's intelligence background. A cover-up of his past had been considered during the formative days of CURE, and rejected.
Instead, Smith had simply retired from his CIA position and taken a dull but well-paid job in the private sector. It was done all the time. No one would have suspected Smith's new position as director of Folcroft masked America's greatest secret.
So no helicopters flew the skies to protect Harold W. Smith.
For the same reasons. Smith dared not bring the still-undiscovered pattern of killings to the attention of law-enforcement agencies. In fact, he had spent a good part of the last four days pulling strings to make certain that local police reports on the killings did not enter the interagency police intelligence networks. Computer files were mysteriously erased. Paper files disappeared from locked cabinets.
No, there must be no headlines detailing the killing of Harold Smiths. It would draw attention to every Harold Smith in Smith's age group-the age group of the thirteen murder victims to date.
And so, Harold W. Smith, with the might of the entire United States military at his command, but unable to call the police like any other citizen, worked in his Spartan office, his only protection a Colt .45 automatic in his upper-right-hand desk drawer. His eyes remained fixed on the busy computer terminal. It would tell him when the mysterious killer struck again.
Unless, of course, he struck at Folcroft. In that case, Smith would know in a more immediate way. Because Smith would be the next victim.
The phone rang and Smith scooped it up.
"Harold?"
It was Smith's wife. "Yes, dear?"
"It's six o'clock. Aren't you coming home tonight?"
"I'm afraid I'm going to be working late again. I'm sorry."
"I'm worried about you. Harold, about us."
"There's nothing to worry about," Smith said in an unconvincing monotone.
"We're slipping, aren't we? Back into our old ways."
"You mean I'm slipping, don't you?" said Smith, his voice warming.
"I wish you were here."
"I wish I was home too." Out of the corner of his eye Smith saw an entry flash on his video screen. "I have to go now. I'll be in touch."
"Harold-"
Smith hung up abruptly. Turning to the screen, he saw the name Smith. He relaxed when he saw that the item was a news report about a politician, last name Smith, who had been arrested on a bribery charge.
False alarm. Smith thought about calling his wife back, but what did it matter now? She was right. He was slipping back into his old habits, his cold manner.
They had a good marriage, but only because she put up with his long hours, his constant preoccupation, his dry manner. Srnith was a good provider, a stable husband, and a churchgoer, but that was as far as it went. A lifetime of public service had crystallized him into the ultimate bureaucrat. A lifetime of responsibility for America's defense had boiled the juices from him.
When Remo and Chiun were set free from CURE, Smith had found freedom himself. Freedom had made a new man of him. He had grown closer to his wife. After forty years of complacent marriage, they were like newlyweds again.
And it had lasted barely three months, Smith thought bitterly, forcing his thoughts to refocus on the here and now.
Smith did not know who the killer was. He did not know for certain that his rampage through the ranks of Harold Smiths was a hit-or-miss attempt to snuff out Smith's own life. But he had to assume so.
First there was Smith's background. His OSS/CIA history was full of old enemies. There had been CURE-related enemies, but thanks to Remo and Chiun, none of them had lived. No, this matter could not involve CURE. Anyone knowing of Smith's link to CURE had to know enough to locate him with ease.
That made the killer, inevitably, someone from Smith's pre-CURE days, But who? Whoever it was did not know certain important facts.
He did not know where Smith currently lived or worked.
He did not know Smith's full name, otherwise only Harold W. Smiths would be targetted.
But most important, he did not know he was stalking a man who could fight back.
Chapter 11
Boyce Barlow had single-handedly made the town of Dogwood, Alabama-population 334-racially pure. Boyce was very proud of his accomplishment. Dogwood, Alabama, was his hometown, not far from the big city of Huntsville. There were no Jews in Dogwood. Never had been. There were no Asians in Dogwood, although there were a few in Rocket City. As long as they stayed in Rocket City, Boyce Barlow didn't much care about them.
Boyce Barlow was the founder of the White Purity League of Alabama. He had founded it one night in Buckhorn's Lounge, about two weeks after his unemployment checks ran out, while a string band played bad country music on the jukebox.