"Save it for your next book," she said, and hung up.
She looked at the telephone for a long minute after replacing it, then shrugged, and headed back toward the door. All right. To hell with it. She was an agent, and she would do what her boss had told her to do. There was no room for emotionalism in her trade.
But to herself she smiled. She relished the prospect of looking in on PJ Kenny and she looked forward to the opportunity to play nurse with him.
And Great Britain's top agent be damned. May his next dose be fatal.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dr. Harold W. Smith twisted around in his swivel chair, studied the waters of Long Island Sound, and felt sorry for himself.
Remo was overdue. He was supposed to have called at noon. He glanced at his watch. Two hours ago. Two hours in CURE could be an eternity. Five minutes of knowing Remo Williams could seem like an eternity.
He could have guessed that the wise bastard wouldn't call. Why did Remo Williams have to be a wise guy?
Why did he have to work for Dr. Harold W. Smith?
Why did Smith have to run CURE? Why did there have to be a CURE?
God, I feel sorry for me, he thought, as he continued to ask himself the unfamiliar questions, questions he had not really considered in the years he had headed the nation's most secret organization.
Smith was the quintessential bureaucrat. Given a task of the utmost stupidity, he would perform it capably. He would not worry about the innate stupidity of it.
Of course, he was the ultimate bureaucrat, but with a difference. First, he was intelligent. Second, he was honest. Third, he was an absolute patriot.
Patriotism was sometimes the last refuge of scoundrels who hid themselves by wrapping themselves in the flag. But Smith wrapped himself around the flag to protect it and shield it. So the simple fact was that when a President made a judgment that CURE was necessary in the fight against lawlessness, there was only one man in the government with the background, the honesty, the patriotism, the espionage skills, the administrative knowhow, to run it. Dr. Harold W. Smith.
And that was many years ago, and here he was, near pension age, but he knew now there would never be a pension, his children were grown now and he had missed their childhoods, and he was denied even the usual out of the wayward parent: the right to tell his now-grown children, well, this is the way it was and that's why I couldn't be there. Even that was denied him.
With a conscious effort of will, he forced the whole package of resentment out of his mind. His problem now was—where was Remo?
He had not called from Algiers, and despite his antics, missing a check-in was something Remo did not do. Somehow, it had penetrated even through Remo's thick skull that missing a call-in might trigger whole series of events and actions that, once started, would be impossible to call off. So he always called. But today he hadn't and he was two hours overdue.
That meant trouble. Smith had no faith in the ability of the secret agencies of other countries to stop Nemeroff. He had regarded it as CURE's assignment, as America's problem. He had assigned his biggest weapon, Remo Williams, and given him a free hand, hoping that that free hand would be used to kill Nemeroff.
Nemeroff's name had moved through the CURE crime computers too many times and Smith, probably better than any other man in the world, had a fair idea of the full extent of the baron's illegal influence. The world would be better rid of him. And Scambia would be better off without its assassination-minded vice president, Asiphar.
He had hoped that that solution would occur to Williams. But now, as the minutes had lengthened into hours and Remo had not called, he began to worry that somehow the solution had become part of the problem.
He watched the waters of the sound for a few minutes longer, then picked up the telephone and gave his secretary a number to call.
In a few minutes, the buzzer rang. He picked up the phone, prepared for his country's sake, to perform a distasteful service.
"Hello, Chiun. This is Doctor Smith."
"Yes," Churn said. How many times had Smith spoken to him on the phone; how many times had Chiun responded merely, "yes?" It was like talking to a wall.
"I have not heard from your student," Smith said.
"Nor have I."
"He has missed his noon check-in."
"That is apparent if you have not heard from him,'' Chiun said.
"What was his mood when he left?"
"If you mean, has he fled from you, the answer is no."
"Are you sure?" Smith asked.
"I am sure," Chiun said. "I informed him of a great honor soon to be his. He would not now flee."
"Perhaps he's drunk some place?" Smith suggested.
"I think not," Chiun suggested.
And then, because there was simply nothing left to say by either of them, each hung up. Neither thought to say goodbye.
Smith depressed the receiver with his finger, then called his secretary again. Within a minute, he had set in motion procedures to quietly check upon the whereabouts of a PJ Kenny who was registered at the Stonewall Hotel in Algiers.
The sun was beginning to dip over the sound when the answer came back. Mr. PJ Kenny is still registered at the Stonewall Hotel in Algiers. On the previous evening, he was wounded in some sort of shooting incident. The extent of his injuries is unknown, since no doctor was called into attendance, and he has not yet left his room.
"Thank you," Smith said. Then, himself, without his secretary, dialed the number of the Hotel Palazzo in New York. He must seek Chiun's advice.
The hotel operator answered.
"Room Eleven-eleven," Smith said.
The operator hesitated a moment, then Smith heard a phone ringing.
"Front desk," came a man's voice.
"I asked for Room Eleven-eleven," Smith said, annoyance leaking from his voice.
"Whom did you wish to speak to?" the clerk asked.
"Mr. Park. The elderly Oriental gentleman."
"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Park has left word that he will be gone for a few days."
"He has? Did he say where he was going?"
"As a matter of fact, he did. He said he was going to Algeria."
"Thank you," Smith said slowly, and hung up. Well, that was that. Remo had called Chiun, told him he needed help, and Chiun was on his way. Nothing to do but wait.