One person who did not know was an FBI file clerk named Fred Skilicorn. A copy of the file ended up in his hands after it had been received at FBI headquarters in Washington. He had it for only ten minutes. That was enough time for him to skim it and, after delivering it to his superior, make a surreptitious phone call.
Fred Skilicorn officially worked for the FBI. But the extra check that landed in his post-office box every month bore the CIA shield. The CIA knew nothing about the check, however. It was drawn off a secret CURE payroll. Many people worked for CURE. Most of them-like Fred Skilicorn-never knew it.
It was Fred Skilicorn's job to leak sensitive FBI intelligence to the rival CIA. Or so he thought.
The number he called was a recorded message identified only by its phone number. Skilicorn whispered a quick gist of the NTSB report and hung up.
Within seconds the audio recording was electronically converted into print copy and squirted over the telephone lines to a very active computer at Folcroft Sanitarium, where Dr. Harold W. Smith was doggedly tracking all message traffic in and out of Washington, D.C. The town was like a pressure cooker about to blow its lid. Rumors were flying. The president was overdue in Bogota. The press were told his plane had laid over in Acapulco. Authorities in Acapulco denied the story. The story was hastily revised to a Panama layover. U. S. occupation forces in Panama City issued a clipped "No comment" to every media inquiry and the media was momentarily stymied.
Smith detected only a feeling of unease. There were reports of a major speech to be delivered by the Vice-President. Officially, it was tied in with the President's trip. Unofficially, there were a thousand unconfirmable rumors. Smith was picking up anonymous tips that it was much more than that.
He sweated as he scanned these rumors reaching him. They ran the gamut from the Vice-President's intended divorce to his impending resignation for medical reasons. The resignation story was the one most rife. And it was coming from credible sources at State, from Treasury, and out of the White House itself.
Nothing was breaking in the media. The noon news broadcasts had come and gone, but the evening newscasts were being prepared. And there was no story to report. No arrival of Air Force One. Reporters were burning up the phone lines with questions.
And there were no answers.
A blinking screen light warned Smith of an informant's tip emanating from Washington. Smith keyed into it. The gist was brief. Smith absorbed it at a glance.
It was an NTSB preliminary report. He almost dismissed it. What had happened to Air Force One would be a matter for tomorrow. The President's fate was today's crisis.
And then Smith saw the remarks about the cockpit voice recorder's final recording. A strange voice that said over and over: "Survive . . . survive . . . must survive."
And Dr. Harold W. Smith's grayish visage paled three times, each time losing another shade of gray.
He sat at his terminal, white as the proverbial ghost. Because what he was reading told him that a ghost from CURE's past had returned-a ghost of plastic and aluminum and fiber optics.
A ghost named Mr. Cordons.
Smith reached for the telephone and began dialing Mexico City. His fingers kept hitting the wrong buttons. He hung up, took a deep breath, and tried again.
Chapter 21
Remo Williams began to appreciate the size of Chapultepec Park after he had been walking along a winding pathway between bands of ancient cypress trees for twenty minutes and saw no sign of the other side.
It was vast. Like New York's Central Park squared. Sad-faced Mexicans of all varieties, from prosperous businessmen to blanket-clad Indians selling tortillas and refrescos from little wheeled carts, milled about. There were so many people roaming the park, Remo wondered if it was some kind of Mexican holiday.
So many people that it was difficult to move quickly through them and impossible to spot the Vice-President-if in fact he were mingling with the jostling crowd.
Remo looked around for someone who might speak English. He spotted a well-dressed blond woman feeding ducks in a pool so large it might pass for a small lake, and worked his way toward her.
"Excuse me," Remo began.
" Si?" the woman asked in Spanish. She turned around and Remo saw the caramel coloring of her smooth skin. He realized her hair had been dyed.
"Habla ingles?" Remo asked.
The woman shook her head, murmuring, "No ingles. Sorry. "
"Thanks anyway." Remo moved on. His head hurt and he lowered his respiration cycle to keep out the pollutants. Unfortunately, this also decreased the amount of already-sparse oxygen getting to his lungs. The effect was like starving the fire that was the sun source burning deep within his solar plexus, the true seat of his soul, as he had been taught by Chiun.
Another few yards, another blond head bobbed. Remo pushed through the crowd to reach her.
"Excuse me," he called. "Help out a fellow American?"
" I am not an americana," she replied.
"But you do speak English," Remo prompted.
"Does it not seem that way to you?" she asked demurely.
"Yeah, yeah," Remo said impatiently. "Look. Have you seen the Vice-President around here?"
"No. Perhaps you should go to the Presidential Palace. "
"No. I mean my Vice-President."
"Your Vice-President?"
"Yeah. The U. S. Vice-President. Comprendo?"
"Comprende," the Mexican blond corrected. "And I do not know what he looks like."
"I thought everyone knew his face."
"You gringos are such egotists. Can you tell me what the Mexican Vice-President looks like? Or our President?"
Remo winced. "Point taken," he admitted. "The guy I'm looking for really stands out in a crowd. He's got a golf bag over one shoulder and-"
"Golf? What is golf?"
"It's a game. Played with clubs. You know-fore?" Remo pantomined Arnold Palmer teeing off. He got a quizzically raised eyebrow that was twenty shades darker than the hair above it.
"I am sorry, senor. I cannot help you."
Remo started to go, then remembering something. "How about Robert Redford? See any sign of him?"
"No," the blond said brightly. "Is Senor Redford in Mexico?"
"I doubt it," Remo said sourly. He stalked away.
He decided that his best bet was to climb one of the towering cypress trees. He went up the nearest bole.
By the time he reached the crown, his hands were dusty with pollution particles that had come of the leaves and branches like tomb dust.
He looked at his fingertips. The stuff resembled fine ash, but it gleamed with metallic traces.
"Unbelievable," Remo grumbled. "Even the trees are dirty." He looked around, stepping from branch to branch to get different views of the park.
There was no sign of the Vice-President, nor of anyone carrying a golf bag. Not that even Remo's sharp eyes could have easily picked one man out of the teeming throng.
Releasing a defeated sigh, Remo started to climb down off the tree.
He heard the helicopter before he saw it. The sound made him jump back to the grass. He looked up.
To the north, a helicopter lifted free of the cypressdotted horizon. It vectored away toward the concrete tower that was the Hotel Nikko.
Remo recognized it as Comandante Odie's personal ship. The markings and mounted machine guns gave it away.
He started to run back to the Reforma. After his lungs began to burn, he changed his mind and dropped back to a trot.
By the time he reached the exit gate, he was walking.
The Master of Sinanju was waiting impatiently in the brick park where Remo had last seen him.
Remo approached wearing a frown. Something was wrong. He could tell it by the dark expression on his mentor's yellow face. Officer Mazatl was likewise troubled. Her flat eyes were dazed, almost wounded.