"He's right here in America now," said Harrow.
"Praised be his blissful name," said Winthrop Dalton.
"All praise be to his perfect blissfulness," said V. Rodefer Harrow III.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dr. Harold W. Smith looked with pinched eyes at the stapled-together pile of papers on his large plain metal desk.
"Lease Agreement," it was headed, and he read through the whereases, which were contradicted by the "be it noted howevers," and the wherefores, which were watered down by the "except in the event ofs," and automatically translated them into English to learn that the Divine Bliss Mission, Inc., had leased Kezar Stadium in San Francisco for one night, four days hence "for purposes of a religious meeting."
The lease agreement was signed for the Divine Bliss Mission, Inc., by one Gasphali Krishna, also known as Irving Rosenblatt, who bore the title of "Chief Arch-Priest, California district." A stamped notation on the last page of the lease recorded it as "paid in full."
Smith read the lease again. This was it, "the big thing." He had no doubt about it, but what was a big thing about a revival tent meeting, no matter what kind of stadium it was held in? From Billy Sunday through Aimee Semple McPherson through Father Divine and Prophet Jones and Billy Graham and Oral Roberts, millions of people had been led up to someone else's vision of God for periods of sometimes as long as two days, and the country was none the worse for it. What was this Indian juvenile delinquent going to do that was different?
Of course, there was the list of names that Remo had given Smith of the maharaji's followers. Some of them highly placed and important people. But so what? What were they going to do that could somehow justify all this effort that Smith's organization was putting into a teenage Indian boy?
Smith let his eyes wander off the lease form again. If it had not been for the fact that a number of Americans who had gone to Patna had disappeared, and the Indian government had refused to show any concern about it, Smith realized he would seriously question whether this was any of CURE'S business at all. There was just nothing there in all he had seen so far that represented a threat to the government. And that was, after all, CURE'S one and only mission—the preservation of constitutional government. It was why CURE had been created by a now dead president and why Smith had been put in charge of it, and it was why only two people besides the president in office—Smith and Remo—knew what CURE was and what it did.
From a standpoint of secrecy, CURE made the Manhattan Project look like a meeting of Greenwich Village Democratic committeemen. And why not? The Manhattan Project had produced only the atomic bomb, but CURE's secrecy might be even more important, for if CURE should be exposed, it would be an admission that constitutional government hadn't worked and didn't work, and it might bring the entire nation down.
Dr. Smith put aside the lease form. He had made up his mind. Remo was working on the case, and he would let that continue before deciding whether or not to assign Remo to other things. And just as a precaution, he would take Remo's list of names and see that they were immobilized before the Kezar Stadium Blissathon of the Maharaji Dor. Something, perhaps, under the cover of a required hospital examination. And that would cover all the bases for a while. But he wished he had the names of all Dor's American followers. Remo had said there were more.
Smith looked at the computer terminal recessed under a glass panel on his desk, which silently and continuously printed summary conclusions of the data gathered by thousands of agents across the country, agents who thought they were working for the FBI and the tax bureau and as customs inspectors and bank examiners, but all of whose reports wound up in CURE'S computers.
A sign here, a loose word there, a change in prices somewhere else, and the computer could draw conclusions and put them on Smith's desk, along with recommended actions.
The computer silently printed:
"Possible foreign money influx, unsettling prices on Midwest grain exchange. No recommendation."
It paused. Then:
"Aircraft company near bankruptcy now appears solvent again. Investigate potential ties with Arab oil countries."
Such reports moved across his desk all day long. They were the day-to-day essence of his job, Smith reminded himself. The important things. Things that could affect America's security, its position in the world.
Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe Remo should get off this Divine Bliss Mission business right away. He may have overreacted in assigning him in the first place.
Smith looked down at the computer, again silently forming letters under the glass panel.
"Policeman's slaying in Midwest apparently linked to battle for control of crime syndicate in that part of country. Crime figures have close connections with several United States senators, and certain immigration bills affecting those crime figures have been introduced by those senators."
Now that was important, Smith thought. Crime had even reached its tentacles into the U.S. Senate. That was a case perhaps for Remo's talents.
The computer kept forming letters.
"Suggest pressure upon senators, to get them to lift political protection from mob figures."
Probably the right approach, Smith thought. And probably the next assignment for Remo.
The computer kept printing.
"All praise the Divine Blissful Master. Bliss be his."
And Smith shuddered.
And 2700 miles away, across the nation, Martin Mandelbaum was also shuddering, with outrage.
He would read them the goddam riot act. That was for sure. He would ream them up and he would ream them down. How could they? For Christ's sake, how could they?
As he walked along the polished marble floors of San Francisco's central airport terminal, he got angrier and angrier.
Who was that fat-faced little punk?
Along every wall, on every column, on every litter basket, everywhere in his nice clean terminal was a poster of this fat-faced, fruity-looking boy with a half-assed fuzz of a mustache. Who the hell was he?
Under the color picture were a few lines of type. They read:
HE IS COMING.
TUESDAY NIGHT.
KEZAR STADIUM.
ALL ARE INVITED.
ADMISSION FREE.
Who the hell was HE?
And how the hell did all these goddam posters get into Martin Mandelbaum's beautiful, clean airport?
HE, whoever HE was, had some fine frigging nerve, and the maintenance men who worked under Mandelbaum's direction were going to hear about it.
Mandelbaum angrily yanked down one sign from a stone pillar and marched into the corridor that led to his office.
"Good morning, Mr. Mandelbaum," said his secretary.
"Get everybody," he growled. "Everybody. Broom pushers, toilet scrubbers, wall cleaners, painters, plumbers, everybody. Get 'em in the meeting room in five minutes."
"Everybody?"
"Yes, Miss Perkins, fucking everybody."
Mandelbaum went into his office, slamming the door behind him. He would ream ass. As he had in World War II as a top sergeant, as he had on his way when he got his first civilian job that put him in charge of two other people, as he had while he worked his way up the bureaucratic ladder, as he had all his life.