"They landed a small force on the Bay of Pigs. It was wiped out. The survivors have been captured. They are currently being interrogated."
"Havana will blame us," Smith said without skipping a beat.
"Havana be damned. We gotta find out who these guys are!"
"Cuban exiles. There has been stepped-up harassment of Cuba for the last year or so. After Castro executed that last group of freedom fighters, they have been bent on revenge."
"I have no intelligence on the who, Smith," said the President. "But tensions between Washington and that grubby flyspeck of an island are growing worse. The Cold War is supposed to be over! And we're still having to look over our sovereign shoulders at this guy!"
"What would you like me to do?" asked Harold Smith.
"Find out who these guys are, and muzzle them."
"Are you certain this is what you want? Cuba is ripe for revolution. The people are starving. Basic necessities are rationed where they are not nonexistent. Defectors are risking their lives to come to Florida in droves. A new leadership-almost any leadership-would be infinitely preferable to the people in power now."
"Agreed;" said the President, as if speaking to an equal. "But we're trying to keep the lid on in Russia-I mean, the Commonwealth. We have a secret agreement with Moscow, Smith. Hands off Cuba. That way we don't embarrass the former Soviet military-and they stay out of Commonwealth-and therefore world-politics."
"I see," said Harold W. Smith.
"And we don't need to give Castro any more of a seige mentality than he already has. The man is poised to land on the ash heap of the twentieth century. And he's railing about the future of Socialism in the Americas. He's cornered. And there's no telling what a cornered dictator will do."
"Understood, Mr. President. I will send our people to Miami."
That had been morning.
By afternoon, things had gotten worse. Smith was monitoring message traffic. There were signs of increased activity, according to Department of Defense intercepts of coded Cuban radio traffic.
The President had called again.
"Smith, the DoD reports that Havana is telling their people the prisoners have been interrogated and they implicate Washington."
"Which is not the case, I assume."
"Absolutely. We have-want-nothing to do with this. Get your people moving. We gotta root out the real culprits and flush them into the open. This cannot be allowed to stand."
That was the point when Harold Smith had reached out to his enforcement arm without success.
Now he was frantic, trying. The red phone shrilled again. Smith hesitated. He lifted the handset on the second ring.
"Is something wrong?" asked the President, tone worried.
"Sir?"
"It took you two rings. You usually grab it on the first."
"I was preoccupied," Smith said carefully.
"The situation is going critical."
"Sir?"
"Somehow, that lunatic has overpowered TV transmissions in South Florida. We always suspected Havana had the capability, being that he's only ninety miles off our shores, but we didn't dream he'd dare provoke us that much."
"What is Castro saying?" asked Smith. He had already brought out a portable TV set and turned it on. It had been purchased at a yard sale, and usually took its time warming up.
"I think he's giving Speech Number 33," the Chief Executive said tiredly. "They all sound alike to me. They start with 'We are the defenders of the Revolution' and end with ' "Socialism or Death" is our battlecry.' You'd think he'd make a master tape and just play it every once in a while."
"God," Smith croaked, as his set blinked into life.
"What is it?"
"I'm watching him now. I hadn't realized he'd gotten so fat."
"Smith, any progress?"
Smith hesitated. "No," he said truthfully.
"Very well. Stay in touch."
"Yes, Mr. President," said Smith. He returned to his humming computer.
Harold Smith knew only one thing. That the Master of Sinanju was upset over the stalled state of their current contract negotiations. Usually they were contentious. This time, they had become interminable as well. Never before had they gone on so long. Technically, the old contract had expired. Such a situation had never been allowed to go unresolved for this long.
But Smith had been unable to break down the impasse. The Master of Sinanju had demanded the impossible.
Had Smith been blessed with imagination, he might have been able to imagine where Chiun had gone. But he could not. So he doggedly returned to his computer, his fingers on the keyboard making hollow, manic clicks.
Somewhere, in the vast databanks of the nation, he knew, there must be a lead.
The bulletin came while Smith was staring at a blank screen. The computer beeped musically, and an AP bulletin digest began scrolling before his bleary eyes.
It was brief.
An Air Force jet out of Homestead AFB had shot down a MIG Flogger over the Gulf. The fighterbomber was presumed of Cuban origin.
"My God!" croaked Smith again.
This time the President did not call. Smith knew why. He was too busy conferring with the Joint Chiefs of Staff in an attempt to deal with the escalating situation.
This was no longer a CURE covert operation. It was lurching toward war.
While updates poured in, Smith redoubled his efforts.
The engagement had been brief. The press was speculating on the lone MIG's mission.
"Suicide mission," Smith muttered. "But what was his target?"