Through the night, he had not even been able to use work as a distraction. He dared not turn on his computer. Dared not expose any more of what was going on here to the snoring stranger across the room.
And so he sat. Staring.
Smith was still watching the man on his couch when he was startled by the abrupt opening of his office door.
Smith instinctively darted for his gun. When he saw who it was entering his inner sanctum, he quickly slid his desk drawer shut, concealing the automatic.
"Good morning, Dr. Smith," Eileen Mikulka said pleasantly as she walked into the room. She balanced a small serving tray on her forearm. On the tray was a steaming cup of coffee and two slices of dry toast.
This was one of Mrs. Mikulka's daily duties, and one that she made it a point not to miss.
In days long gone, Dr. Smith had sometimes found time to golf in the mornings. Once in a while when he was gone there were important sanitarium documents that needed his attention. The papers were couriered to his home. On these occasions, according to sanitarium lore, Mrs. Smith had always been delighted to greet company and insisted that they have something to eat. Afterward, when next there came a time that something needed to be delivered to the Folcroft director's home, whoever went last invariably refused to go.
Everyone around Folcroft knew that Mrs. Smith was a very nice, very lonely woman, as well as a notoriously bad cook.
And so Mrs. Mikulka had taken it upon herself to see to it that her employer at least ate something decent during the day. At 7:00 a.m. every morning, come rain or shine, she delivered a plate of toast and a cup of coffee to the Folcroft director's office.
Mrs. Mikulka was stepping across the threadbare carpet when a noise behind her nearly caused her to drop her tray. Startled, she looked over her shoulder. Someone on the couch was just stirring awake.
"Oh," she said, surprised that her employer was not alone. She grew even more surprised when she saw who it was pushing himself to a sitting position on Smith's sofa.
When she glanced at her employer, she saw that his tired gray eyes were rimmed with dark bags. "Is everything all right, Dr. Smith?" Mrs. Mikulka asked. When she looked back, the patient young medical-supplies salesman from the previous day was rubbing sleep from his eyes. Standing in front of Smith's desk, she seemed unsure whether she should say hello or call security.
"It's quite all right, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said.
"Oh. Very well." Hesitantly, she set plate and mug to Smith's desk. She still was not sure what to make of this. "Would you like something, sir?" she asked Howard.
"No, thanks," Mark said, stretching. "How late's the cafeteria serve breakfast?"
"Oh, um, eleven o'clock."
"I'll grab something later," he said, smiling. Mrs. Mikulka nodded. Clutching the plastic tray like a shield to her ample bosom, she left the room. As she was closing the door, Mark climbed to his feet. Stifling a yawn, he checked his watch. Because of the cast on his wrist, he wore it on his left arm. "It's probably okay to call now," he ventured. Smith nodded crisply. Before opening the right-hand drawer where the special White House line was secreted, he pulled open the lower left drawer, once more exposing his automatic pistol. Smith took out an old-fashioned cherry-red phone, placing it on the desk next to his toast and coffee.
As Howard stood patiently before him, tie loosened and suit rumpled, the CURE director lifted the receiver.
THE PRESIDENT of the United States was getting dressed when the pager on his belt buzzed.
His wife was sound asleep beneath a mound of blankets. Although she had been a political wife for some time, she had not been prepared for the attention she was getting as First Lady. The past few weeks had worn her out.
Leaving his jacket at the foot of the bed, the President tiptoed from the room. Walking briskly, he headed down the main hallway of the family quarters, past the private elevator. He ducked into the Lincoln Bedroom.
Like many other rooms in the White House, the Lincoln Bedroom had recently been hastily refurnished with antiques from the Smithsonian Institution. The remodeling became necessary after it was discovered that the previous occupants of the White House had left under cover of darkness with a wagonload of priceless antiques. Over the past week some of the missing national treasures had begun quietly showing up at an online auction house. The highest bid for the framed original copy of the Emancipation Proclamation was currently $2,350.50, not including shipping.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, the new President opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand and removed the dial-less red phone that sat alone inside.
Hand on the receiver, he steeled himself for a moment before lifting it to his ear.
"Yes?" he said. His faint Southern twang was noticeable even on the single syllable.
"Good morning, Mr. President," a sharp voice replied.
The President was surprised at how tart it sounded. His predecessor had been right about the voice. It was like lemons mixed with grapefruit.
"This is Smith, I presume?" the President said.
"Yes, sir," Smith answered crisply. "Mr. President, do you know a man by the name of Mark Howard? He claims to have been sent here by you."
That was it. Straight on to business. No apologies for the early hour, no further pleasantries, no nothing. After the endless parade of smoke blowers he had dealt with over the past year, this Smith was like a breath of fresh air.
"Yes, I sent Mark there," the President replied.
"May I ask why?" Smith said.
Phone pressed tight to his ear, the President sat forward on the bed, resting his elbow on the opposite wrist.
"I know what goes on there, Smith," the President said. "What's more, I understand that it's necessary. I mean, I've gotta assume that four decades' worth of presidents from both parties wouldn't have left you in business if you weren't important to the nation. But the guy who held this office before me said there were only three of you there who know what's really going on. Is that true?"
Up the East Coast, in the privacy of his Folcroft office, Harold Smith's gray face clouded.
"Yes, Mr. President," Smith admitted. With Howard still in the room, he was careful to keep his answers short.
The young man stood before Smith's desk. He seemed determined to mask any nervousness he was feeling.
"Has anyone else ever learned of your group?" the President asked.
Smith already knew where this was heading. With an eye trained on the man before him, he nodded. "From time to time that has happened," he admitted.
"I figured. So what happened to them?"
The CURE director pursed his lips. "I believe you have already deduced the answer to that question, sir," he said.
"Yes, Smith, I have. When I assumed this office two weeks ago, I was briefed by the outgoing President about you. He's the one who chose Mark, not me. The screening process was done months before I even won the election. So in the middle of my inauguration and hundred-day honeymoon period, I had this mess dropped into my lap. I had only two options, since Mark already knew about you by this time. I could either send him to you and have you take care of him like you have the others who've found out about you over the years, or I could send him there as your assistant. I was understandably reluctant to spill an innocent man's blood-as I imagine you would be-and so I went with the second option."
Smith did not deem it the proper time to inform the president that some of those who had learned of CURE and subsequently died at his order had been innocents, as well.
The CURE director pushed up his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"And in so doing you have installed him here as my assistant," Smith said.
"That's right," the president said. "And let's be reasonable here. I don't want to be insulting, but the last President said you weren't a young man."
"That is true, sir," Smith sighed. He refrained from mentioning that this call was making him feel older by the minute.
"And it's true, as well, that there are no contingency plans in case you, um..." His voice trailed off.
"Yes, sir, that is true," Smith offered.