"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean-"
She quickly checked her reserved list. When she couldn't find a Dr. Glass there, she went behind the counter and checked the computerized membership rolls. Again she came up empty. Fortunately, the club director-a man Smith recognized from years before-happened to be passing by.
The club director had been a young assistant back then. He was older now, with white hair and a dark tan. Deep furrows of laugh lines crimped the corners of his eyes. When he was told there was a problem with a missing Westchester Golf Club member, the laugh lines blossomed, forming deep, sympathetic crevices. He frowned sadly.
"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Dr. Smith," the man said, "but Dr. Glass passed away."
Smith blinked. "Oh," he said.
He was surprised he hadn't heard. His wife generally kept him up-to-date on such matters. Although Smith was the first to admit that as the years passed he found himself paying less and less attention to his wife's nightly reports on their community. Smith was usually distracted by CURE matters and generally tuned out Maude Smith, offering only a few "yes, dears" whenever they seemed warranted.
Obviously he had missed the death of his old golfing companion Robert Glass. He would have to send his widow a sympathy card.
"When did he die?" Smith asked.
The country club director checked his chart. "Ah, 1987," he replied.
"Oh," Smith said again. Perhaps it was too late for a sympathy card. "Is his wife still a member?"
"She moved to Florida. I believe she passed away last year. I could check if you'd like."
"Don't bother," Smith said, clearing his throat. "There were two other men Dr. Glass and I used to golf with. George Garner and Phillip Lassiter. Are they still, er, members?"
He could tell the answer from the fresh deeply sympathetic look that came over the man's face.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Smith. Judge Garner passed on about five years ago." He pitched his voice low. "Actually, it happened here. He'd just played eighteen holes and came back to the clubhouse. It happened in the locker room. He just sort of fell over. Eighty-six years old. In remarkable shape for a man his age. We were all shocked and saddened."
Smith's earlier good mood had long evaporated. "Yes, thank you," he said tightly. "I'm sorry to have bothered you." He turned to go.
"Mr. Lassiter is still with us," the club director offered brightly. "An attorney here in Rye, correct?"
"That's right," Smith said, turning back.
"In fact, I saw him here this morning." The country club director's smile of optimism faded behind a somber cloud. "Oh, but you probably meant the father."
"Father?"
"Phillip Lassiter Senior. The name of the firm was changed to Lassiter and Lassiter years ago. The father and son are-were-both lawyers. Have you driven past their downtown offices in the last-oh, twenty years or so? That big sign out front?"
Now that he mentioned it, Smith had seen the name change driving through downtown Rye. He had noted it when it happened and then filed it away and forgot about it. The Lassiter and Lassiter, Attorneys at Law sign was now part of the background of his everyday life-just something he drove past and ignored.
"Yes," Smith said, already knowing where this was going.
"The second Lassiter is your Mr. Lassiter's son, also Phillip. Mr. Lassiter Junior is a member here, but I'm afraid Mr. Lassiter Senior is, well, no longer with us. Lung cancer, I'm afraid. He's been gone almost ten years. A shame, really. Such a gentleman. Never an unkind word for anyone. We all missed him dearly when he passed."
"Yes," Smith said. "Thank you. Excuse me, but I have a tee time."
Turning, Smith headed for the door, pulling his golf bag behind him. The wheels squeaked.
"Your clubs are wonderful, Dr. Smith," the club director called behind him. "Very old. Almost antiques, really. You don't see very many like those around these days."
"Yes," agreed Dr. Harold W. Smith, who, as he headed out the gleaming glass door into the spring sunshine, no longer felt the urge to whistle.
Chapter 11
The ivy-covered brick building that was Folcroft Sanitarium was nestled amid budding birch and lateblooming spring maples on the shore of Long Island Sound. In a small rear office on the second floor of the administrative wing, Mark Howard sat behind his scarred oak desk.
If he leaned over far enough, Mark could have just glimpsed the sparkling waters of the Sound out his office window. Mark didn't look out the window this day.
Intent brownish-green eyes were locked on the computer monitor on his desk. The monitor was attached by cable through the floor to four mainframes hidden behind a secret panel in the sanitarium's basement.
With a concerned expression on his wide face, Mark studied the data that scrolled across his computer screen.
At just under six feet tall, Howard was thin with broad shoulders. His face had the pleasant corn-fed wideness of America's heartland, ruddy at the cheeks. He lent the impression-even sitting-of a man who was always just a few seconds late for wherever he was going.
If some lost visitors were to accidentally step in from the hall, they would be singularly unimpressed by the average-looking young man in a small office. There were millions more just like him in banks and boardrooms around the nation. Bored at the seeming blandness of both man and office, they would have left, never realizing that the man they had so easily dismissed as average was arguably the second most powerful man in the world.
The assistant director of CURE was scanning the latest reports out of New York. He didn't like what he saw.
More cases of strange attacks were coming in hourly.
Dr. Smith had sent Remo and Chiun to investigate early that morning. Their plane had touched down in New York more than an hour ago. By then Dr. Smith had already left the office.
Mark was loath to call the CURE director back. After all, until Remo reported in, there was nothing Smith could do except sit and worry. For now, that was Mark Howard's job.
The assistant CURE director had gladly accepted that particular burden as just another one of his duties. For more than forty years Dr. Smith had worked tirelessly as director of CURE. When Mark had arrived at Folcroft more than two years ago, Smith had been showing all the signs of a man slowly surrendering to life's twilight. That was gone now.
Since Mark had come aboard, Smith had regained his focus and energy. Only a small part of that had to do with having someone now to share the burden he had for so long carried alone. No, the thing that had most reinvigorated the CURE director was his protege. He now had someone from a new generation with whom he could share thoughts, guidance and wisdom. In Mark Howard, Harold Smith was reborn.
Mark had seen the slow metamorphosis in his employer and understood the psychology behind the change. And in every way he could-large and small-he had determined to keep Harold Smith's burden light. America owed the older man that. And Mark Howard would do his part to repay the debt.
Howard pulled his eyes from his monitor. There had been another attack, this one at a delicatessen in Manhattan.
Mark's right eye was starting to ache. Staring at the computer was beginning to take its toll. He had always had better than twenty-twenty vision. Thanks to CURE, a few more years and he would have to think about glasses.
He was rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand when the black phone on his desk jangled to life. Glancing sharply, he noted that it was the contact line. Dr. Smith had had all calls rerouted to his assistant's office while he was away, including the special line.