Smith had ordered the security guards attached to Foleroft on high alert, but they were not equipped to handle anything this serious. Folcroft was an ordinary institution, and the guards believed they were guarding an expensive health facility. Smith, with the resources of the United States government at his command, could have ordered Folcroft surrounded by crack units of the National Guard. Navy helicopters could, in less than an hour, be deployed in the air over the grounds.
And by the seven-o'clock news, CURE's cover would be exposed to the harsh spotlight of the media, if not blown entirely. There was no way to hide Smith's intelligence background. A cover-up of his past had been considered during the formative days of CURE, and rejected.
Instead, Smith had simply retired from his CIA position and taken a dull but well-paid job in the private sector. It was done all the time. No one would have suspected Smith's new position as director of Folcroft masked America's greatest secret.
So no helicopters flew the skies to protect Harold W. Smith.
For the same reasons. Smith dared not bring the still-undiscovered pattern of killings to the attention of law-enforcement agencies. In fact, he had spent a good part of the last four days pulling strings to make certain that local police reports on the killings did not enter the interagency police intelligence networks. Computer files were mysteriously erased. Paper files disappeared from locked cabinets.
No, there must be no headlines detailing the killing of Harold Smiths. It would draw attention to every Harold Smith in Smith's age group-the age group of the thirteen murder victims to date.
And so, Harold W. Smith, with the might of the entire United States military at his command, but unable to call the police like any other citizen, worked in his Spartan office, his only protection a Colt .45 automatic in his upper-right-hand desk drawer. His eyes remained fixed on the busy computer terminal. It would tell him when the mysterious killer struck again.
Unless, of course, he struck at Folcroft. In that case, Smith would know in a more immediate way. Because Smith would be the next victim.
The phone rang and Smith scooped it up.
"Harold?"
It was Smith's wife. "Yes, dear?"
"It's six o'clock. Aren't you coming home tonight?"
"I'm afraid I'm going to be working late again. I'm sorry."
"I'm worried about you. Harold, about us."
"There's nothing to worry about," Smith said in an unconvincing monotone.
"We're slipping, aren't we? Back into our old ways."
"You mean I'm slipping, don't you?" said Smith, his voice warming.
"I wish you were here."
"I wish I was home too." Out of the corner of his eye Smith saw an entry flash on his video screen. "I have to go now. I'll be in touch."
"Harold-"
Smith hung up abruptly. Turning to the screen, he saw the name Smith. He relaxed when he saw that the item was a news report about a politician, last name Smith, who had been arrested on a bribery charge.
False alarm. Smith thought about calling his wife back, but what did it matter now? She was right. He was slipping back into his old habits, his cold manner.
They had a good marriage, but only because she put up with his long hours, his constant preoccupation, his dry manner. Srnith was a good provider, a stable husband, and a churchgoer, but that was as far as it went. A lifetime of public service had crystallized him into the ultimate bureaucrat. A lifetime of responsibility for America's defense had boiled the juices from him.
When Remo and Chiun were set free from CURE, Smith had found freedom himself. Freedom had made a new man of him. He had grown closer to his wife. After forty years of complacent marriage, they were like newlyweds again.
And it had lasted barely three months, Smith thought bitterly, forcing his thoughts to refocus on the here and now.
Smith did not know who the killer was. He did not know for certain that his rampage through the ranks of Harold Smiths was a hit-or-miss attempt to snuff out Smith's own life. But he had to assume so.
First there was Smith's background. His OSS/CIA history was full of old enemies. There had been CURE-related enemies, but thanks to Remo and Chiun, none of them had lived. No, this matter could not involve CURE. Anyone knowing of Smith's link to CURE had to know enough to locate him with ease.
That made the killer, inevitably, someone from Smith's pre-CURE days, But who? Whoever it was did not know certain important facts.
He did not know where Smith currently lived or worked.
He did not know Smith's full name, otherwise only Harold W. Smiths would be targetted.
But most important, he did not know he was stalking a man who could fight back.
Chapter 11
Boyce Barlow had single-handedly made the town of Dogwood, Alabama-population 334-racially pure. Boyce was very proud of his accomplishment. Dogwood, Alabama, was his hometown, not far from the big city of Huntsville. There were no Jews in Dogwood. Never had been. There were no Asians in Dogwood, although there were a few in Rocket City. As long as they stayed in Rocket City, Boyce Barlow didn't much care about them.
Boyce Barlow was the founder of the White Purity League of Alabama. He had founded it one night in Buckhorn's Lounge, about two weeks after his unemployment checks ran out, while a string band played bad country music on the jukebox.
"This country is going to hell," Boyce told his cousins Luke and Bud.
Luke and Bud each lifted a bottle of Coors in salute to Boyce's righteous sentiment. Luke burped.
"It's getting so a man can't count on worthwhile employment in the land of his birth no more," said Boyce.
"There are other gas stations," said cousin Luke.
"Not in Dogwood, there ain't," Boyce complained. "I can pump gas as good as anyone, but I ain't pumping gas in Dogwood no more."
"Move."
"Shoot, man. I was born here. Can you beat Old Man Shums up and firing a native son like that? I was with him, hell, all of a year and three months. I had seniority. "
"Old Man Shums said you also had your hand in the till."
"So what? I worked there, didn't I?"
"He said you had your hand in the till after closing," Luke pointed out.
"I was drunk," said Bovce. "How the hell's a man supposed to know what he's about when he's drunk? It ain't natural."
"I hear Old Man Shums got himself a replacement," Luke offered.
"Some Indian fella from Huntsville."
"Indian! Damn! That's what's wrong with this country. Too many damn furriners."
"I don't think he's that kind of an Indian."