Whistling, Remo retrieved the balloons from the ceiling and positioned them in front of his face as the governor's feet jerked and twitched. The pulpy sound of something heavy hitting the sidewalk several stories below was lost in the slam of the door as Remo left.
The governor's secretary looked up quizzically as Remo emerged, his face masked by a cluster of balloons.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
"He vetoed the balloons," Remo said sadly. "Said he didn't like the color."
"Which color?"
"All of them. He wants black balloons next time."
"Oh, my God, am I in trouble?" She started for the door. Remo stopped her with his voice.
"I wouldn't go in there just now. I started singing and he lost his head. Between you and me, I think his marriage is on the rocks."
"Oh," the secretary said, returning to her seat.
Remo kept the balloons before his face all the way down to the lobby and past the guard.
"Wouldn't see you, huh?" the guard said smugly.
"He's not seeing anyone right now," Remo said solemnly.
Out on the sidewalk, Remo walked briskly up the street. He noticed that people were staring at him. Or rather, at his balloons. He ducked down a side street and almost stepped on the late Florida governor's head as it lay on the sidewalk. Remo looked at the dripping red stain oozing down from the governor's closed office window.
He looked around. There was no one in sight, so he knelt down and tied the balloon strings to the governor's hair. Returning to his feet, he let go.
Remo waved good-bye to the governor's head as it bobbed up past the State House, where a muggy breeze caught it, carrying it from sight.
As he walked away, Remo stripped off his uniform jacket, exposing a tight black T-shirt. He stuffed the jacket in a dumpster after rending the nametag stitching to shreds, and wondered what the National Enquirer would say about this one.
Then he went looking for a taxi. There were a lot of them in the streets, but every one was occupied. Remo kept walking. He turned a corner and was surprised to see a knot of people in front of a window. They looked anxious.
Curious, Remo drifted up to the crowd. He read the sign over the window: "PRUDENT BROKERAGE." The storefront contained a small electric ticker tape.
"What's going on?" Remo asked of no one in particular. "Somebody famous die?"
A man in a gray flannel suit called back without turning around, "The stock market is crashing. Again." He had a frog in his throat.
"Really?" Remo said. "Oh, well, it's not my problem." He went in search of a cab.
Chapter 3
Dr. Harold W. Smith wore his face like a wax mask.
He sat behind an oak desk, his face shiny with a thin film of perspiration. A tiny bead formed at the tip of his nose and clung there, held by static tension. Smith didn't notice it. His tired gray eyes were boring through rimless glasses at the computer terminal on his desk.
A green cursor raced across the screen, spewing strings of data. Sell orders being cabled to the New York Stock Exchange from all points of the globe.
They had been coming all morning, in waves like invisible missiles. Unlike missiles, they struck without sound or flash or concussion. Yet each hit wounded America as deeply as if they were rockets cratering the New York streets. Every strike landed in the vicinity of Wall Street.
But the damage would spread in ripples unless something happened to reverse it.
Smith tapped a key, and got an alphanumeric readout of the current Standard es. They were not good. He tapped the key again and watched the cable orders. If anything, they were intensifying. The Dow had plunged over three hundred points since the opening bell. Trading had been halted once. It was now nearly noon-only two hours later.
Smith knew it would be only a matter of time. As the head of CURE, he could do nothing to affect the situation without presidential authorization. And he could not ask for that authorization until it was almost too late.
Smith leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt tired. The droplet of perspiration trickled down the notch under his nose.
The intercom buzzer sounded. Without opening his eyes, Smith keyed it and spoke.
"Yes, Mrs. Mikulka?"
"Dr. Smith. A call for you on line two," said Eileen Mikulka, who knew nothing of CURE. She was Smith's secretary in his position as head of Folcroft Sanitarium, a private hospital. Folcroft was the cover for CURE.
"Who is it?" Smith asked. His voice was strained. Ordinarily it carried a lemony New England tang; today it was as dry as a crisp graham cracker.
"A Mr. Winthrop. He's with the law firm of Winthrop and Weymouth."
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Smith had no time to deal with Folcroft matters now.
"Take his number and ask the nature of his business. I'll return his call later."
"Yes, Dr. Smith."
Smith allowed his eyes another half-minute of respite, and when they snapped open again, they gleamed.
The computer screen continued revealing incoming sell cables. They were being transmitted to the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, the San Francisco Stock Exchange, and brokerage houses all over the country. The Toronto Stock Exchange began showing signs of uncertainty. And the Mexico City exchange was inundated.
It meant that Wall Street was unable to bear the load.
Smith clutched the padded armrest of his chair. He knew it was inevitable. The global economy was experiencing another meltdown. This one worse than the Crash of '87. Still, he could not act.
Smith opened the top-right-hand drawer and lifted out a red telephone. It was a standard AT xcept that there was no dial. He set it close to him and reached back into the drawer. It was a reflex, when he was under stress, to reach into that drawer. Some days it was aspirin. Other days, Alka-Seltzer or one of three other varieties of antacid.
Smith lifted out a tiny canister of foam antacid, returned it with a lemony frown, and lifted a bottle of children's aspirin he'd gotten as a supermarket sample. He hadn't even looked at the label. Now he noticed for the first time the trademark. It was a gold oval surrounding what seemed to be a black gap-toothed mouth with a pendulous uvula. Smith read the brand name. It meant nothing to him.
He set the aspirin in easy reach beside the red phone. He didn't need it-yet. He was simply too drained to feel anything. But he knew he would need it before the day was over.
Then it came. The cable traffic intercepts winked off as a warning program kicked in. The computer began beeping.
Smith's eyes flew open. For the first time, they reflected fear.
"It's started," he said hoarsely.
The system, which had surreptitiously logged onto mainframes in brokerage houses and financial institutions all over the nation, was picking up the next wave. The first warnings were coming from the East Coast, where the brokerage computers were reaching hysteresis. Automatic trading programs, set up to sell stocks when they fell below a certain price, were emitting warnings that the Dow prices were approaching those null points.