For a time the day before yesterday, he had thought he might be having some kind of relapse. Of course, he knew that was not likely. He had been assured that his recovery would be complete.
However, after he had hung up from Remo, he had a creeping, unnerving sensation in his skull.
It was a strange afterimage of his illness. Almost like exploring the spot where a troubling canker sore had been, expecting the pain to still be there.
Of course Smith was nothing if not logical. He knew exactly why he had felt the way he had. But Remo and Chiun had gotten out of Germany without further incident.
According to the latest information he had gotten from the wire service, the police cordon was still in place around the North Korean embassy. They did not know their quarry was long gone. Let the Koreans at the Berlin mission try to explain their way out of it. It was not a CURE affair.
Just to be certain that every loose end was tied up, Smith was in the process of checking the records of Kim Jong Il's personal jet.
His gnarled fingers ached as he drummed them swiftly and precisely against the surface of his desk. Buried beneath the lip of the onyx slab, alphanumeric keys lit up amber when struck. Dancing fireflies entombed in a sea of black.
While he was convalescing, Smith had gotten used to typing on his small laptop. The sensation was different with the high-tech keyboard on his desk. His body was not as adaptable as it had once been. It would take a little time for his fingers to get used to the different sensation.
Smith soon learned that the aircraft had touched down in North Korea the previous day. That meant that the Master of Sinanju's share of the Nibelungen Hoard would be halfway to his village by now. Away from the world for centuries-perhaps aeons-to come.
The CURE director breathed a sigh of relief on learning the news. The Hoard would not be a threat to world commerce in Harold Smith's lifetime. And for Smith, that was the best he could hope to accomplish.
As he was exiting the record of flight-log data, Smith's computer system emitted a small electronic beep. It was a signal that the massive mainframes in the basement beneath him had dredged something of interest from the vast stream of facts and curiosities coursing endlessly along the invisible information stream that was the World Wide Web.
Closing out his current application, Smith brought up a window containing the information.
It was a news story from nearby New York City. Eight bullet-riddled bodies had washed up from the East River. Although the features had been carefully mutilated to make identification impossible, police were willing to admit that the victims all appeared to be rather young-ranging from their early twenties to midthirties.
It was being treated as a mystery. The deceased were white males. They did not appear to be victims of a gangland slaying, nor was there evidence of drugs. There had been no missing-persons reports filed.
Until new evidence came to light, the men had each been given a John Doe classification.
Smith wondered briefly if this might not be the work of some new serial killer. If it was, it did not fit any pattern Smith knew of.
He decided that an explanation would most likely present itself eventually. Smith was about to close out the file when the blue contact desk phone rang. He left the story on his computer as he turned his attention to the telephone.
"Yes, Remo," Smith said efficiently.
"Smitty, I figured I'd better let you know about the bodies before those damned computers of yours flagged the story," Remo's familiar voice announced glumly.
"What bodies?" Smith asked, sitting up in his chair. He became instantly aware of his surgery scar. He felt gingerly at it with his gray fingertips as he spoke.
"The ones Chiun and I whacked at the Loonie wedding yesterday," Remo explained. "I know you've got some screwy program that recognizes mine and Chiun's techniques. Before you go apeshit, we are not freelancing."
"That is comforting to know," Smith said dryly. "However, I have received no such information."
"Really?" Remo said, surprised. "I figured those machines of yours would have read the police reports by now."
"Perhaps we should begin at the beginning," Smith said. "Who did you, er, remove?"
"Nine Korean killers," Remo said. "They were armed to the teeth and tried to bump off Man Hyung Sun himself."
"There was an assassination attempt against Sun?" Smith asked. It was his turn to be surprised.
"You didn't hear about that, either?" Remo asked.
"No, I did not."
"Gee, maybe it's time for an upgrade or a lube job or something," Remo suggested. "Your computers are slipping."
"That is not possible," Smith insisted. But even as he denied the possibility that the Folcroft Four could fail, Smith was diving into the system.
He quickly found the reports on the mass Sunnie wedding ceremony. There was nothing to indicate that it had not gone off without a hitch, so to speak.
"Remo, the stories I am reading recount a rather dull ceremony," Smith said, puzzled.
"Whoever wrote that wasn't there," Remo said. "Come to think of it," he added, "I don't remember seeing anyone who looked like a reporter there."
"I think I see why," Smith said, scanning the lines of text on his computer screen. "All of these stories appear to be pretty much identical to one another. Typical for reporters who have written their stories from either a pool source or a press release."
"You're saying the Sunnies kept the assassination attempt under their hats?" Remo asked.
"So it would seem."
"That doesn't make sense. Sun doesn't seem like the kind of guy who would hide from something that might give him positive press."
"No, that does not seem to be in keeping with the character of the Sunnie leader," Smith agreed.
"You knew he had a new psychic infomercial on," Remo said. It was not a question.
"I have heard as much," Smith replied crisply. "It is my understanding that former presidential candidate Michael Princippi is a featured performer." He did not attempt to hide the distaste in his tone. "Apparently, he has sunk even lower since his dealings with Mark Kaspar and the Truth Church."
Remo stiffened at the reference. "Don't even mention that, Smitty," he complained. "Those ghosts are all behind us, so let's just forget about it." He took a deep breath, banishing thoughts of a more painful time. "Anyway, it seems crazy that Sun wouldn't want to capitalize on some screwballs trying to kill him on the same week he goes national with some new scheme."
"I am at a loss to explain it, as well," Smith admitted. "You say these men you eliminated were Korean. Did you think to question any of them?"
"There wasn't time," Remo explained.
"That is unfortunate. Sun is a fervent antiCommunist who has at different times been accused of involvement in illegal activity against both North and South Korea. It is possible that one of the governments on either side of the Thirty-eighth Parallel sent agents to dispose of him for some reason. Why they would choose to do so at this time, I would not begin to speculate."
"Maybe they just don't like weddings," Remo suggested.
"Yes," Smith said humorlessly. "In any event, I will be on the alert for any report concerning the Korean deaths. If there is any new information available, I will let you know. You are at home, presumably."
"Not exactly," Remo hedged. Before Smith could press further, he changed the subject. "By the way, Smitty, the other weird thing about the whole mess is that there weren't any police there during the assassination attempt."
"Did Sun not wish them inside the stadium during the ceremony?" Smith asked.
"In or outside," Remo explained. "There weren't any cops around anywhere. More than twenty bodies raining down all around us, and not even a beat cop with a billy club to give me and Chiun a hand."