That's why Moss Monroe had gone out there. The specific motivation was as yet unclear, but obviously there was something to be had at the Truth Church ranch for which these people were willing to pay dearly.
Smith withdrew from the Truth Church Foundation account and severed his computer connection with the Thermopolis First State Bank.
Once he backed into the computer's main drive, he leaned back in his cracked leather chair. The instant his fingertips left the keyboard's capacitor field, the letters winked out. The desktop became a pool of blackish onyx, the computer screen a single, unblinking amber eye staring sullenly up at him from some fearful nether region.
There was nothing more to go on.
Smith glanced at his Timex. It was 11:00 p.m.
Remo had yet to check in. But that wasn't unusual. CURE'S enforcement arm had never been as punctual as Smith would have liked, and it was possible that Moss Monroe was still at the ranch. Engaged in what, Smith did not know.
There was no doubt that something strange was going on out in Wyoming. Something larger than Smith had originally guessed. Perhaps it had something to do with Zen and Gary's "prophecy," but until he had
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something more concrete to go on, this part of the investigation was dead in the water.
Smith was shaken from his reverie by the ringing of a telephone. For an instant he thought it was Remo checking in, then he realized it wasn't the blue contact phone jangling. He pulled open a drawer desk and lifted the receiver of the clumsy red AT&T standard phone that was his direct line to the White House.
"Yes, Mr. President," Smith said crisply.
"Smith," the familiar hoarse voice said. "Sorry to call this late."
"Go ahead, sir," Smith prompted.
The President seemed to be at a loss for words. He cleared his throat a few times, uncertainly.
"Is there something I can do for you, Mr. President?" Smith queried. His clipped, lemony tones showed no underlying curiosity.
The President forced the words out. "It's been brought to my attention that out west there's an establishment of—let's say ill repute. Members of my party have been...frequenting this establishment."
The uncharacteristic trepidation in the man's voice led Smith to a safe conclusion. Circumstances had often brought the world's two oldest professions into conflict from time immemorial, and it appeared as if the President had a potentially embarrassing political situation on his hands.
Whatever else Smith was, he was not a pawn of any political party.
"Mr. President, you are aware that it is not part of our charter to get involved in domestic political situations."
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"I know that," said the President. "Of course. But—"
"Then you agree it would be inadvisable for us to investigate a matter of a delicate political nature."
"Ordinarily, yes," the President agreed. "But there's more to this than that."
Smith pursed his razor-thin lips. "I am listening."
' 'Have you ever heard of a place called Ranch Rag-narok?"
Harold Smith listened to the President for barely five minutes.
The Chief Executive explained how he had been approached at a party fund-raising dinner earlier that evening by a congressman who had helped the President win a surprise victory for a piece of important legislation in the House. The man insisted that he had been told at a ranch in Wyoming the identity of those in the opposition who needed to be strong-armed and precisely what personal information would persuade the men to sway their votes. In private life this was considered blackmail, but in Washington it was business as usual.
The President was willing, at first, to dismiss the man and his claim as mildly eccentric, but twice during the same dinner—once by another congressman, once by a contributing business executive—it had been confided to the leader of the free world that all his questions about the future could be answered at the same small ranch.
The President cleared his throat noisily. "Do you—do you think there's anything to this?"
"To fortune-telling?" Smith retorted skeptically.
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"When you put it that way, no. Of course not. But—"
"But what?"
"Well, my wife believes in this stuff. In fact, she spends a lot of time in the Red Room talking to Eleanor Roosevelt."
"Claiming to talk to Eleanor Roosevelt, you mean," Smith said.
"Er, sometimes I listen at the door," the President said guardedly. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Sometimes I hear two voices. What do you think of that, Smith?"
"Not much," Harold Smith said truthfully. "And I would steer your political allies away from Ranch Ragnarok, if I were you," he added.
Repeating CURE's directive to avoid political entanglement, Smith excused himself and hung up.
For a long time after he had replaced the receiver, Smith's hand continued to grasp the warm red plastic.
He had his answer. The cryptic scrawl in the corner of that first check had been no joke. Reputable people with something to lose were willing to risk public ridicule to travel to the Truth Church ranch.
For a glimpse into the future.
At long last Smith released the receiver and pushed the desk drawer silently back into place.
He spun his chair toward the window behind him and stared at the silent, black waters of Long Island Sound.
For the first time that evening, he noticed that night hud fallen.
Chapter Ten
Michael "the Prince" Princippi had been out of politics for a decade, and although most Americans were relieved by this prolonged absence there were some—granted, a very small minority—who longed for the Prince of Massachusetts politics to return to the public spotlight. There was no one who held this view more strongly than Mike Princippi himself.
His rise to the head of the presidential pack a decade before had been both surprising and meteoric. He was far from flamboyant, but not deliberate enough in his demeanor to be considered reserved. He was, quite frankly, dull.
No one thought Princippi would get the nomination of his party during the 1988 presidential contest and, therefore, no one in his party campaigned much against him.
After the dust of the primary battles had settled, the other contenders were shocked to find out that their previous year of squabbling and backstabbing had effectively handed over the presumptive nomination to a man with the charm of a haddock and the charisma of a bucket of chopped ice. A broken space heater projected more warmth, the party chairman had lamented.