"I take it he wasn't shot, stabbed or suffocated."
"Decapitation," Smith said.
MacCleary issued a soft whistle. "That's a new twist," he said, slumping back in the couch. He stared at the floor.
"I had pulled back from investigating the Maxwell matter pending completion of Remo's training. However, this could have an impact on my original game plan. Senator Bianco was part of a committee looking into organized crime. He and some of the other senators from that committee were scheduled to meet in New York in a few weeks."
"They're sure as hell gonna cancel now," Conn said.
"No, they are not," Smith said. "I suspect that, if anything, this will strengthen their resolve."
"Idiots," MacCleary muttered. "Leave it to politicians to not know when to duck and cover."
The old CIA man spoke with deep bitterness. The decade that had just ended was witness to the shooting deaths of three prominent Americans, including the President who had sanctioned the creation of CURE.
Conn knew that no age was as completely innocent as people liked to believe. He had seen too much in life to believe in fairy tales. But for many years, thanks to the secret work of men like Conrad MacCleary, the lie had been true for most Americans. Now that was all changing. In his life he had seen the evil that used to lurk in shadow step out into sunlight. America's innocence had been murdered by a sniper's bullet.
Smith's nasal voice cut through Conn's dispirited haze.
"At the moment no one is taking credit for Bianco's death," the CURE director said. "So far the papers have been kept in the dark. They believe the cause of death was a sudden heart attack. That's a stroke of luck for us. As long as they believe that, we'll be able to step up our investigation without fear of interference."
MacCleary sighed loudly. "So what? If the Mob has started wiping out politicians, America'll be better off. I say we pin medals on every guinea who helps thin that herd."
Smith's face darkened. "You don't mean that, Conn," he admonished. "And even you must see that only the honest politicians are at risk. The Mafia would not murder a politician who was working for them."
"Okay, we go with plan B," MacCleary said. "You know, the one we've used for the past eight years where we don't do anything but talk about the problem? Better yet, we let the Mob wipe out the last honest politicians in the country and then slap the cuffs on whoever's left standing."
Smith's flat eyes never wavered. "No cuffs," he insisted somberly. "Not this time."
The CURE director's tone was clipped, efficient. Across the room MacCleary felt the boozy haze bleed from his brain.
Smith's meaning was clear. It had been months since CURE had been given permission to use the ultimate sanction against America's enemies. They had been twiddling their thumbs ever since, not daring to employ their new mandate. MacCleary had been afraid Smith had lost his nerve.
"So, we're finally gonna go for it," Conn said quietly. "It's about damned time."
Beneath his gruff tone was an underlying awe. They were about to embark on something momentous. And frightening.
"If Remo is close to ready, I will commit him to the field," Smith said. "How is his training progressing?"
"Before they left, Chiun said he was coming along way ahead of schedule," MacCleary said.
Smith's face relaxed. Finally, some good news. "If it's a matter of days, perhaps we can put this off a little longer," the CURE director said. "Does Master Chiun believe he can have him up to speed within a week or two?"
MacCleary shook his head. There was a hint of sad mirth in his tired eyes. "Not quite. Chiun thinks he could maybe have him ready in fifteen years. Ten if he goes the lazy Western route and cuts a few corners along the way."
Smith blinked. "Is that a joke?" he asked.
"He sounded pretty serious to me."
The CURE director considered deeply. "Obviously, he is not serious. He's simply exaggerating to make a point. He must think Remo isn't ready for fieldwork."
"I'm not so sure about that, Smitty," Conn said. "I know Chiun's pretty out there with all that kissing up and bowing and Emperor Smith bull-hockey, but he doesn't strike me as the exaggerating type for stuff like this. I'll make sure I pin him down on it when they get back."
"I will talk to Master Chiun," Smith insisted. "When do you expect them to return?"
"I'm not sure," MacCleary admitted. "After he finished the job you gave him, Chiun took Remo out into the desert for some kind of Sinanju survival training. It's been weeks already. Could be quite a while more. Chiun's been working him pretty hard."
"What time of day does Remo report in?" MacCleary shook his head. "I told him not to bother calling. Chiun will keep him from taking off. And nothing was pressing when they left. Plus the guy's not too sharp for remembering codes or call times or tracing protocols, Smitty. We won't hear from them until they get back."
"That is unfortunate," Smith said with a frown. "I guess it was bad timing letting them go now. Especially since this could wind up being a wasted trip. I'm still not sure Chiun wasn't just whistling up all our asses about that selective-amnesia thing."
"You are the expert on Sinanju," Smith pointed out.
"Yeah, but that one seems far-fetched even to me."
Smith considered his words. "I have seen enough of Master Chiun's abilities to not disbelieve him out of hand," he admitted. "As it is, the knowledge of CURE is limited to the two of us and the sitting President. Remo will eventually have to be briefed in greater detail. Four is enough. If Sinanju truly does have a technique that can block certain memories, we will be protecting not only this agency but the former Presidents themselves."
"I doubt any President would rat us out, Smitty," MacCleary said. "Although if one does spill the beans, my bet's on the beady-eyed bugger we're stuck with right now."
"My fear is not that they would voluntarily give us away," Smith explained. "Who knows what secrets they might unwittingly divulge as they age? Something as innocent as the onset of senility or a simple slip of the tongue could prove disastrous for us. If Master Chiun is not simply boasting and it is possible to make an outgoing President forget about CURE, we will be protecting them, as well as us."
"It'd sure make my work easier," MacCleary muttered. His gaze was far-off.
Smith understood his old comrade's unspoken thought.
Three times in the past eight years CURE's security had been breached. Up until recently, deadly force had only been allowed in dealing with security matters. Each of the three times MacCleary had handled the details, and the men who had learned of CURE had simply disappeared.
Although MacCleary had killed more men in the line of duty than he cared to think about, it hadn't gotten any easier with age. Through the years, the faces of his victims had stayed with him. An accusing, Hell-sent choir that haunted his darkest midnight hours.
"Unfortunately, our original security protocols still stand, Conn," Smith said quietly. "Chiun told me the amnesia technique is not infallible. He told me there was one instance where it came undone. I cannot run that risk with someone who has learned of our activities."
"I gotcha, Smitty," MacCleary said. His tired eyes studied the dusty corners of the austere office.
At his desk Smith cleared his throat. "The Maxwell matter needs to be looked into," he said. "And since we don't know how long our new enforcement arm will be away-"
MacCleary didn't let him finish. "I got this one, Smitty," he said, standing.
Smith nodded. "Here is the data I have collected on Maxwell." He pushed a manila envelope across his desk. "We still don't know who he is, but the link to him is a man named Felton. Everything we have is in there."