One of CURE's own had been turned.
Of course Smith understood that it wasn't Mark's fault. Judith White's twisted tampering had not only drawn out the young man's animal instincts, it had suppressed his sense of duty, honor and loyalty. But although Mark wasn't to blame for what he had become, that didn't lessen Smith's concern.
Smith had invested much in his assistant. From the start the young man had showed great promise. More than anything else, Mark Howard had given Harold Smith hope. For CURE, for America. For the future.
Presiding over CURE had been Smith's mission and his alone from the very start. Oh, for the first few years he'd had some help. But Conrad MacCleary, Smith's right hand in those formative years, was more a field agent. MacCleary tended to blank out when it came to the mundane day-to-day aspects of running the secret organization. In a very real sense, Harold Smith had always been alone.
But over the past few years, Mark Howard had given Smith hope that the agency would continue after his own death. That knowledge had given the older man great relief. After all, when Smith was gone, America's problems wouldn't end. The nation would still need CURE. Mark was their best bet for the organization to continue.
But now he was gone. Lost to the enemy. Worse, the secrets in his possession could damn them all. Jaws clenched tight, Smith hurried across the basement.
The cabinet with the tranquilizer guns was in the corner opposite the stairs. Walking briskly, Smith was reaching in his pocket for the keys when he heard a sudden noise.
He stopped dead.
For a moment he just stood there, uncertain of the sound, unsure if he had heard anything at all.
He strained to hear, but the basement was silent. Thinking he had imagined the noise, he was about to take another step when he heard it again. A soft rustling.
Only then did he notice the scrap of yellowed paper on the floor.
It was the note he had taped to the storage-room door years before. The Scotch tape was brittle from age. There were pieces overlapping from where he'd had to replace them over the years. But the note had never fallen before.
When Smith craned to look around the boiler, he saw that the steel door was ajar.
A shadow in human shape spilled from inside the room. A scuffling footfall sounded from within. Smith became aware of the pacemaker in his chest. He noticed it only in moments of extreme anxiety. Holding his breath, he tried to will his heart to slow.
Pulling in a lungful of air, Smith pressed his back to the wall. He stayed there a moment, unsure what to do.
He could not possibly reach the tranquilizer guns. The cabinet was too far away, beyond the open door. He would have to pass in full view of the storage room. Even if by some miracle he made it past, he was certain he couldn't get his keys out and open the cabinet without being heard.
He contemplated turning back. He might be able to catch up with Remo and Chiun. Get help.
But whoever was in the room wouldn't stay inside forever. If Mark had come down to hide until he felt it was safe to bolt, he might be gone by the time Smith returned.
Smith was given little choice.
On the wall nearby hung a rack of old lawn tools that had for years been used by Folcroft's elderly groundskeeper. When that man retired back in the 1980s, Smith had hired a professional landscaping service. He was happy now to have saved the gardening equipment.
Hands veined from age took a pair of shears down from a hook. They were rusted shut. No matter. Fingers tight on the twin grips, Smith crept for the open door. He held the blades out before him, ready for anything that might lunge at him through the door. As he approached, the shadow that came from the open door made little movements.
And then, abruptly, it stopped.
Smith worried that whatever was inside had sensed someone creeping up from outside.
He was almost to the door. He raised his makeshift weapon. Ready for attack, ready to plunge the blades home.
A soft scuffle. Something stepping out from the storage room. The shadow congealed into a familiar shape.
It wasn't the figure he had expected. Startled, Smith felt the tension slip away. "Mrs. Mikulka," he gasped, lowering the blades.
"Dr. Smith?" Eileen Mikulka asked, glancing at the shears. There was no alarm in her voice or on her face. Smith's secretary seemed to take in stride the fact that she had just nearly been assaulted, by her employer in a lonely basement in the dead of night. "Is something wrong?"
"I was-" Smith said. He cleared his throat. "That is, I heard a noise. I forgot you were still here."
"I'm nearly finished," she promised.
"Finish whatever you have to in the morning," Smith said. "It is not safe for you to stay here by yourself. "
"Oh, dear. Is something wrong?"
Smith considered telling her about Mark Howard but decided against it. Mrs. Mikulka was fond of Smith's assistant. Having her standing around all night fretting would merely complicate an already difficult situation.
"A dangerous patient has escaped," Smith replied. "I'll see you safely to your car. Please lock the records room. I'll be with you in a moment."
Turning, Smith fumbled the shears up under his arm as he reached in his pocket once more for the keys. He was heading for the corner cabinet when he caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye.
He twisted in time to see his secretary lunging. Shocked, Smith dropped the shears as Eileen Mikulka roared. A loud, inhuman sound that chilled his marrow. Mrs. Mikulka's crooked talons flew for his throat.
IN THE INSTANT before the blow landed, Harold Smith's heart thrilled as he spied the flash of yellow in his secretary's brown eyes.
She was too fast. Too slow to react, the flashing, logical part of his brain fully expected the killing blow to register. He felt the breeze on his neck.
In the instant before her claws struck, Smith was startled when another hand darted into view. With a loud slap, it batted his secretary's hand harmlessly away.
"Hold, thing of evil," a booming voice commanded.
Smith's brain was still only vaguely registering how close he had just come to mortality when his lagging vision finally spied the flash of black to his left.
The Master of Sinanju shot in beside the CURE director. In a heartbeat, he was standing between Smith and his snarling secretary. Knotted hands rose before the old Korean like tensing cobras, ready to lash out.
Remo slid in on Smith's right.
"You okay, Smitty?" Rerno asked levelly, a wary eye on Mrs. Mikulka.
"Fine," Smith insisted. He was still gathering his wits. The shock had begun to fade.
Eileen Mikulka had stepped back a pace. She hunched her head protectively down into her shoulders as she studied the wizened figure that had blocked her killing blow. She seemed to suddenly decide that he was no real threat.
Baring fangs, Mrs. Mikulka growled.
"Prepare to meet your doom!" Chiun declared, deadly hands raised.
"Don't hurt her!" Smith shouted.
Remo had to hold the CURE director back to keep him from throwing himself between Chiun and Mrs. Mikulka.