The Folcroft director took off his glasses, folding them carefully into the pocket of his dress shirt. Next, he stripped off his suit jacket. Turning it around, he draped the rear of the jacket over his face. Taking the loose arms, he wrapped them over his eyes for double protection, drawing the ends over his shoulders.
With his arthritic fingers he found the sleeves difficult to knot. He turned to his secretary.
"Mrs. Mikulka, would you please tie this for me?" Smith's muffled voice asked from beneath his jacket.
"Oh. Yes, sir."
Mrs. Mikulka dutifully knotted the sleeves at the back of her employer's head.
"Thank you," Folcroft's director said. "No phone calls, please."
With that, Smith entered his office.
Inside was as familiar as if he had been sighted. Beneath his makeshift mask, Smith's eyes were screwed tightly shut. He didn't want to take any chances.
Smith got to his knees. Bones creaked as he made his way an all fours across the office, facedown. He found the cord to the television first. The CURE director knew that he hadn't had the set turned on before he attacked Remo, but he dared not leave anything to chance. He tugged the plug from the wall. Crawling around below the window, he found the thick cord that exited the base of his high-tech desk. It was connected to a panel in the floor.
Smith wrapped his gnarled hand around the plug and pulled. A hum that he had not been aware emanated from the bowels of his desk slowly petered out.
He waited on the floor several long seconds, just to be certain that the monitor buried deep inside the desktop had faded completely to black.
Finally, Smith used the desk's edge to drag himself to his feet.
He pulled the jacket off still knotted. Untying the sleeves, he shrugged it back on over his shoulders. Taking his seat, he replaced his glasses on his patrician nose.
Smith stared down at the black surface of his desk. In it was his dead computer. His lifeline to the outside world.
Harold, kill Remo.
He saw the words floating in the air before him. They were fading from his vision. Like the ghostly afterimage of something that had been stared at too long.
This was the disaster he had feared after the attack on Remo in the Harlem police station. He had been wrong not to fear the worst. Someone knew not only of Remo, but also of Smith. That simple realization was a molten ball of lead tossed into the pit of Smith's acid-churned stomach.
The only thing that linked the two men was CURE. To know of Remo and Smith was certainly to know of CURE.
Not only was America's last line of defense teetering on the edge of exposure, but also thanks to the particular technology at the hands of its enemy, CURE was now flying blind.
When the knock came at the door, Smith was so numb he didn't even hear his own voice call "Come in."
Mrs. Mikulka stuck her head in the room. She seemed relieved to see that he was back to wearing his suit jacket the more traditional way.
"Can I get you something, Dr. Smith?" his secretary asked with motherly concern. "Tea or soup?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said woodenly.
"Let me know if you change your mind. Oh, by the way, a friend of yours called a little while ago. At least he said he was a friend. He didn't give his name, I'm afraid."
The words barely registered. The caller was probably just a telemarketer. It couldn't have been a friend of Smith's. The only real friend Harold W. Smith had ever had was long dead and buried.
"Thank you, Mrs. Mikulka."
She smiled warmly. "I'm so glad everyone is feeling better. You both gave us all quite a scare this week."
"Both?" Smith asked, frowning.
"You and Mr. Howard," Eileen Mikulka explained. "He came back to work a few hours ago. I'm so happy he seems fine." She scrunched up her face. "The doctor said you were hypnotized. Was that what was wrong with Mr. Howard?"
Smith had been trying to sort through his tangled thoughts. His secretary's words helped clear the fog. "I'm not sure," Smith said. He sat up straight. "Please excuse me, Mrs. Mikulka. I have work to do."
Nodding apologetically, his secretary left the office. Once the door was closed, Smith drew open his bottom drawer. His automatic was sitting where Remo had dropped it.
There was only one man new at CURE. One man who knew of Remo and Smith. A man who had just released one of the most dangerous foes the covert agency had ever faced.
Smith had been hoping for an explanation for Jeremiah Purcell's escape. He now had it. Betrayal. Smith slipped the gun into his pocket and left the office.
Mrs. Mikulka seemed surprised to see him reappear so soon. Smith said nothing to his secretary as he made his way out into the hallway.
Down the hall, he paused in front of Mark Howard's office. He could hear voices murmuring inside. Smith's assistant should not have anyone in his office. He probably thought he was safe. The young man assumed his employer was still tucked out of the way in the basement.
Smith took the gun out, holding it low near his thigh.
He took his key ring from his pocket. Careful to keep the keys from jangling together, he slipped his passkey into the lock with his free hand.
Taking a deep breath, he twisted the knob and kicked the door open. He jumped in after it, gun raised.
Mark Howard was sitting behind his desk, eyes trained on his computer monitor. When the door flew open, the assistant CURE director looked up, startled. "Dr. Smith?"
There was someone sitting on the edge of Howard's desk. When he saw who it was, Smith blinked.
"Remo?" the CURE director asked, confused. His gun sank uncertainly.
Remo was searching the CURE director's gray eyes. He seemed satisfied with what he found. "Think you can hold off shooting me this time, Smitty? And while you're at it, close the door." Smith didn't know what else to do. He lowered his gun a few inches and shut the door behind him.
"Is something wrong, Dr. Smith?" Mark Howard asked. His greenish-brown eyes were trained on the wavering barrel of his employer's automatic.
Remo answered for the CURE director. "He thinks you've gone rotten on us, Junior." To Smith he said, "Don't worry about the kid, Smitty. We've already covered this. He didn't know what he was doing with Purcell."
The gun inched lower. "Are you certain?" Smith asked.
"Yeah," Remo said. "You know we can tell if people are lying. I turned the juice up high, and the kid didn't crack. He let Purcell go, but he didn't mean to.
"But Mark should still be under sedation," Smith said.
"I woke him up," Remo said. "I needed someone who could run your dippy computers without trying to kill me. And whatever was wrong with him before, he seems fine now. You know Purcell's got some weird stuff he can do with his mind. I'm thinking he found some way to tap into the kid's brain. I still don't know why he picked him and not someone else."
Smith glanced at Mark Howard. There was a look of fresh concern on the young man's face, this time tinged with guilt.