The assistant director of CURE was scanning the latest reports out of New York. He didn't like what he saw.
More cases of strange attacks were coming in hourly.
Dr. Smith had sent Remo and Chiun to investigate early that morning. Their plane had touched down in New York more than an hour ago. By then Dr. Smith had already left the office.
Mark was loath to call the CURE director back. After all, until Remo reported in, there was nothing Smith could do except sit and worry. For now, that was Mark Howard's job.
The assistant CURE director had gladly accepted that particular burden as just another one of his duties. For more than forty years Dr. Smith had worked tirelessly as director of CURE. When Mark had arrived at Folcroft more than two years ago, Smith had been showing all the signs of a man slowly surrendering to life's twilight. That was gone now.
Since Mark had come aboard, Smith had regained his focus and energy. Only a small part of that had to do with having someone now to share the burden he had for so long carried alone. No, the thing that had most reinvigorated the CURE director was his protege. He now had someone from a new generation with whom he could share thoughts, guidance and wisdom. In Mark Howard, Harold Smith was reborn.
Mark had seen the slow metamorphosis in his employer and understood the psychology behind the change. And in every way he could-large and small-he had determined to keep Harold Smith's burden light. America owed the older man that. And Mark Howard would do his part to repay the debt.
Howard pulled his eyes from his monitor. There had been another attack, this one at a delicatessen in Manhattan.
Mark's right eye was starting to ache. Staring at the computer was beginning to take its toll. He had always had better than twenty-twenty vision. Thanks to CURE, a few more years and he would have to think about glasses.
He was rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand when the black phone on his desk jangled to life. Glancing sharply, he noted that it was the contact line. Dr. Smith had had all calls rerouted to his assistant's office while he was away, including the special line.
Mark grabbed up the phone, pressing the blinking blue light. "Hello," he said.
"We've got major problems here, kid," Remo said without preamble. "I need to talk to Smith."
"Dr. Smith isn't here right now," Mark said.
"What are you talking about? It's one in the afternoon. Smith's never not there at one in the afternoon. What is he, counting cotton swabs in the supply closet? Get off your duff and go get him. Now."
"He's not here, Remo," Mark insisted. "He's gone to play golf. He mentioned that he was going to try to hook up with some guys he used to play with."
"Oh, for Pete's sake. Perfect timing, Smitty," Remo grumbled to himself. "Can you page him?"
"Yes," Mark said. "Remo, what is going on there?"
There was an impatient hiss on the line. "You have access to Smith's computer records?"
"Yes."
Remo said only three words: "Dr. Judith White." Mark spun to his computer. Short fingers moved swiftly over the clattering keyboard. In seconds he had pulled up the relevant CURE records.
"Judith White. Geneticist. Worked for a company called BostonBio on the Bos Camelus-Whitus." The stir of memory strained his voice. "Oh, no," Mark said worriedly. "I remember this. It was in the news right around Dolly the sheep. This Dr. White was into bizarre genetic engineering, wasn't she? She went on some kind of rampage three years ago in Boston. Oh. According to this encryption in Dr. Smith's notes, you and Chiun stopped her."
"Not good enough apparently. It looks like she's behind what's going on here."
Mark paused a beat. "Remo, it says here that Judith White is dead. I'm assuming you had a hand in that, too."
"And an arm."
"Excuse me?"
"An arm," Remo said. "As in I ripped her arm out of its socket just before she fell three stories and had a million tons of burning factory collapse on her. Sue me for assuming she'd gone to that great litter box in the sky."
Mark nodded. "Very well, I'll page Dr. Smith." He checked the time in the corner of his computer screen. "It will take him a good twenty minutes to get back here. Stay at this number. We'll call you back."
"Make it snappy," Remo said.
The assistant CURE director hung up the phone. He fished a scrap of paper with Smith's pager number from his jacket pocket. He glanced at his monitor. The blob of a cursor blinked over the J in Judith White's name.
"Sorry, Dr. Smith," Mark Howard lamented. "I hope you enjoyed your first five minutes off in forty years."
Exhaling, he reached once more for the phone.
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, it had not gone as poorly as Smith had imagined.
He was rusty the first few holes, as would be expected. For working out the kinks, he had been generous keeping score-golf had always been the one aspect of his life where Smith's otherwise scrupulous honesty failed completely and utterly. But by the seventh and eighth he felt his game returning, almost as if he'd never given it up. By the ninth he barely had to cheat at all.
By the time he returned to the clubhouse, most of his good humor had returned. He tipped his caddie a generous $1.25, adjusted for inflation from his old golfing days. As the young man muttered curses under his breath, Smith carted his own clubs up the stairs to the big shaded patio that stretched out at the rear of the main clubhouse.
Tables under umbrellas were arranged around the deck. Most were filled by patrons of the club's restaurant.
Through the patio doors was the more formal dining hall. To the left was the lounge.
Smith was passing the bar on his way out to the main lobby when he heard the disturbance.
A man at the bar was choking. At least he seemed to be. Hands clutched tight at his throat.
A club staff member-Smith noted that it was the same woman who had tried to help him earlier-was slapping the man on the back, a worried look on her pretty face.
A few others came to help.
Smith was going to ignore it. The last thing he ever wanted to do was attract attention to himself.
He was passing into the hall next to the lounge when he heard a terrible sound-a soft, animal growl. The noise was followed quickly by a woman's scream.
Turning, Smith found the choking golfer leaning back at the waist, hands raised and clutched like claws.
Smith watched amazed as, with a swat, the golfer threw back one of the men who had come to his aid. It was an incredible display of strength. Far greater than should have been possible for a man that size.
The golfer spun on the female. Baring a mouthful of yellowed, middle-aged teeth, he sprang on her, knocking her to the floor. Sprawling on top of her wriggling body, he lunged at the screaming woman's throat.
There was panic in the lounge. And in that moment of panicked, paralyzed hysteria, no one seemed to know what to do. No one except one man.
The enraged golfer attacked purely on instinct. But so too did Harold W. Smith.
From his ancient golf bag, Smith grabbed a driver. Like a tired knight charging into the bloody fray, he ran back into the bar. Hauling back, he gave a mighty swing.
The club struck the woman's attacker hard in the back of the head. A swing that strong outside would have sent Smith's ball sailing nearly to the green. Here, it appeared to barely phase the growling man.