With his lone piece of paper in hand, the President left the disordered study and headed down the hall toward the Lincoln Bedroom.
IT WAS ONLY 9:00 a.m. and Harold Smith was ready to call it a day. He had spent the previous long night attempting to learn where Remo and Chiun's satellite images had been beamed. He'd had no luck. Morning's light found fatigue and anxiety etched deep in the gray lines of his face.
In days gone by, many a sleepless night had Smith remained at his desk. He had been finding out these past few years that at his age it wasn't as easy as it had once been.
But he could not leave. He was right to be concerned.
What should have been a simple visit to the Boston offices of Raffair had turned into a security threat to CURE.
More than anything else, Smith worried about secrecy. The very existence of CURE was an admission that America and her Constitution had failed. If the organization were ever to become known beyond the tight inner circle of Smith, Remo, Chiun and the President, the consequences would be dire.
The rooftop satellite could have beamed Remo and Chiun's images anywhere. Some unknown entity had a glimpse of CURE's enforcement arm in action.
For Smith, the one silver lining in all this had been the thought that Raffair wasn't likely to involve the authorities in the events at their Boston offices.
To do so would be to invite the sort of scrutiny they obviously shied away from. However, the bodies had been discovered by a customer who had entered the building after Remo and Chiun. Word of the deaths had gotten out. Still, as long as the company held on to the tape, there was hope.
Raffair itself continued to be a dead end. Smith had connected a number of small-time criminals to the company, but a larger corporate structure had yet to emerge. Given events in Boston, he would prefer to go after the Hydra's main head rather than send Remo and Chiun up the chain of command.
Beneath the onyx surface of Smith's desk, the word "Raffair" was printed in ghostly fashion on his buried computer screen. The patient cursor blinked methodically, partially obscuring the first R with every strobelike flash.
As usual, the name sparked something in the deepest recesses of Smith's mind. He had begun to assume that it was just his tired brain playing tricks on him.
Surrendering for a moment to his weariness, Smith turned to face the picture window.
The wind was not as severe today. The black waters of Long Island Sound rolled to shore in soothing waves. The old boat dock rose and fell in time with the water. It was by way of that very dock that a much younger Harold Smith had first entered the grounds of Folcroft Sanitarium.
Farther out across the sound, a few boats bobbed in the wan winter light. Smith had seen many such boaters while ensconced in his Spartan office. Decades' worth.
For Harold Smith, this view had always had a calming effect. Someday it would belong to someone else. Either a new head of CURE or the next director of Folcroft. In a brief moment of introspection, Smith wondered if his replacement in that lonely chair would find pleasure in the view. And in that moment, the telephone rang.
"Yes, Mr. President," Smith said once he'd pulled the red phone from his desk drawer.
"Any progress, Smith?" the hoarse voice of the President of the United States demanded.
"None of any significance," Smith admitted, leaning back in his chair. "My people went to New York to check with the firm that helped launch Raffair as a public company. However, the lead there had been severed before they arrived. Beyond that, the financial structure has not been easy to unravel. There are various trusts and offshore banks to which the money is being funneled. It is clearly an illegal venture, but it has been created by an as-yet-unknown agent."
"Hmm," the President said. His voice had taken on a vague, distant tone. "I understand there are regional offices. Why not try going through one of them?"
Smith frowned. "That has already been attempted," he said carefully. "There was some difficulty at the Boston office. My people were put in a compromising position."
"I know what that's like," the President muttered bitterly. "Were they injured?"
"It would take extraordinary circumstances for them to sustain injury," Smith said. "However, without going into great detail, the situation was less than ideal. I am attempting to use the resources at my disposal to minimize the security risk to CURE."
"You do that," the President said. "In the meantime, what about your people? They still in the Boston area?"
"Yes," Smith admitted. He deliberately did not mention that Remo and Chiun called the Commonwealth of Massachusetts home.
On the other end of the line, Smith heard the faint sound of paper rattling.
"Have them check into someone while they're there. Could help you out. It's a counterfeiter named Paul Petito."
Smith pursed his lips. "I know of him," he said slowly.
The name had turned up in his own research. Though curious as to how the President of the United States would know of a man like Petito, the CURE director held his tongue.
"Yeah, I got a source that says he's linked to Raffair. Might be a good idea to check him out. Move up the chain of command from there." The President's voice suddenly grew more cheerful. "Here, kitty-kitty," he said off the phone.
Smith assumed that the presidential cat had just wandered into the Lincoln Bedroom. A moment later, he heard the sound of contented purring close to the phone.
"At least someone in this town hasn't abandoned me," the President said warmly.
"Mr. President, I'm not sure how much more I can do in this matter," Smith said, trying to steer the chief executive back to the topic at hand. "However, I will see what can be done with Mr. Petito."
"Thanks, Smith," the President said, the warmth still lingering in his tone. "You know, man's best friend ain't a dog," he added knowingly. "Those fickle fleabags'll turn on you faster than a drunken ex-press secretary. Cats are the pets that are the real loyal ones. Nice pussy." This last phrase was uttered lovingly off the phone.
As soon as the President had said it, there came a violent hissing from nearby. It was followed by a yelp of pain from the chief executive.
"Dammit!" the President snapped into the receiver. "She even had the damn cat brainwashed for voice commands."
Smith sat up straighter in his chair. "Is everything all right, Mr. President?" he asked, concerned.
"No," the President said sourly. "Who knew you could have a cat reclawed? Just keep looking into that stuff, Smith. I've gotta go find some Bactine." With a final angry huff, the chief executive severed the connection.
Smith slowly replaced the red phone. The frown on his gaunt face had only deepened during their conversation.
While Presidents often informed Smith of wrong-doing, in the nearly forty-year history of CURE, not one chief executive had ever been interested in something so small.
A counterfeiter. Why would the commander in chief be concerned with something so trivial? Smith glanced down at his computer screen. The word "Raffair" blinked up from the sinister depths of his desk.
Wondering what could be going through the President's mind, Smith stretched a hand for the blue contact phone.
FOR THE SECOND MORNING in a row, Remo's peace was shattered by the full-throated yapping of Wylander Jugg. Rather than get into another argument, he'd ducked outside, ignoring the nasty looks given him by two women pushing baby carriages down the sidewalk in front of Castle Sinanju. He spent the bulk of the day hiding out at the dollar movie theater, returning home as the setting sun was just beginning to touch the tops of the nearest buildings.
The condominium complex was brightly lit and blessedly silent. As he walked inside, the Master of Sinanju was floating down the main staircase.
"Why's it so quiet in here?" Remo asked. "Wylander take eating breaks in midrecord? Not that I think that'd be very quiet."
"I am resting my ears," Chiun said. "A handful of flowers is a bouquet-a field is hay fever."
He turned abruptly away from his pupil, rounding the base of the stairway. Remo trailed the old Korean down the hallway to the kitchen.
"A guy I never met before just stopped me outside to ask us to keep it down in here. His newborn's got colic, and Wylander's keeping her awake."
"Impossible," Chiun sniffed. "If anything, she should be lulled to sleep. Tell this whoever-he-is that his disagreeable offspring will only cause some man grief later in life. He should drown her in Quincy Bay at once and spare her poor future husband."