Remo could hear the two fleeing men in the distance. They slipped on rock as they ran. There came the sudden hollow metal scraping of a manhole cover being pushed away.
Remo spun back to the river.
"Damn, damn, double damn," he groused as he kicked off his loafers.
He was still cursing when he dove from the platform. He struck the water without so much as a splash.
Chapter 22
Night shadows had long since engulfed the East Coast, yet Harold W. Smith was still at his post. A half-empty foam cup of chicken broth, scavenged from the Folcroft cafeteria, had been pushed to one side of his desk. The soup was cool now, as was the mournful breeze that carried in off Long Island Sound. World-weary eyes studied the latest information from East Africa.
They were coming from all over the world. Japan, China, Russia. North and South America. Representatives of criminal groups from around the globe were either en route or were already on the ground in Bachsburg.
In its nearly four-decade history, CURE had encountered at various times different attempts to consolidate crime in a particular location. Bay City, New Jersey and the small nation of Scambia, most notably. But this latest enterprise in East Africa put all others Smith had seen to shame.
His computer automatically pulled the names of those with criminal affiliations currently in Bachsburg, dumping them into a single file. Setting the automatic-scroll function, Smith watched the three columns of names slip through the electronic ether that was his monitor. Like a stone thrown in a pond, the ripples of their evil reached out to encompass the entire planet.
He didn't know how long he watched the list go by. Eventually, he pulled his exhausted eyes away from the screen. As the names continued to roll beneath the surface of his desk, Smith removed his rimless glasses. He let his tired hand drop beside his worn leather chair.
So many names. An ocean of crime.
Smith felt like the captain of a sinking ship, trying desperately to spoon out water even while saboteurs punched more holes in his riddled, rusted hull.
During their time together at CURE, it was Remo who battled cyclical bouts of depression. Smith had come to his job with a level of professional detachment that had served him well in his battle against the evils of the world. Yet at that moment, alone in his shadowy Folcroft office, Smith allowed a creeping sense of doubt to invade his thoughts.
Maybe Remo was right.
Smith was not a young man any longer. From the OSS to the CIA to CURE, he had given his life for ideals that seemed to no longer matter to the current generation. In his three-piece gray suit, locked away in his austere office with his unwavering patriotism and selflessness, Smith was an anachronism. And if he could no longer understand the world he was in, perhaps it was time to turn the reins over to those who did. Let the younger men of this generation take up the cause.
There was no doubt that CURE had enjoyed many successes during its history. But could he say that America was a better place than when he'd started?
When he first came to Folcroft, most of the cars in the employee lot were left unlocked. By the 1970s, if a car wasn't locked it was generally by accident. Today, the annoying electronic whoop of car alarms issuing occasionally from the sanitarium parking lot was demonstration enough of how far downhill America had gone. A minor symptom of a much larger disease. And the infection spread to the world.
Lost in dark thoughts, Smith hardly heard the muffled jangle of the telephone. Feeling his fatigue deepen, he reached into his bottom desk drawer to answer the special White House line.
"Yes, Mr. President," the CURE director exhaled.
"Smith, what do you know about the situation in East Africa?"
The familiar hoarse voice of America's chief executive held an irritated edge. Smith knew why. Over the past two years, this president had on multiple occasions attempted to use CURE in his political self-interest. The incorruptible Smith had steadfastly refused. As a result of his unwavering ethics, Smith had lately been treated to a steady diet of hostility from the chief executive. His relationship with the current president had deteriorated greatly over the past few months.
"There is an attempt to consolidate criminal interests there, Mr. President," Smith replied, puzzled. "Frankly, I'm a little surprised that you even know of it."
"I have my sources," the President answered vaguely. "What about those guys who work for you?"
Smith frowned. "I have dispatched my people to look into the situation," he admitted.
"Whoa," the President rasped angrily. "They're already there? Dammit, why didn't you tell me you were on this?"
Smith carefully replaced his glasses on his patrician nose. "I did not see the need, sir," he replied cautiously. "I remind you that assignments are decided on at my discretion. You have no oversight of CURE beyond suggesting assignments and disbanding this organization, should you deem it appropriate to do so."
"Stop doing that all the time," the President snapped. "I'm sick of you telling me what I can and can't do with your group. What have they done there so far?"
"Not much," Smith answered truthfully. "It is a complicated situation made all the more so by the involvement of certain key government figures."
The President exhaled relief. "Then I caught you in time. Thank God. Smith, I don't know what you have planned for the folks in charge there, but there are a few little people who should remain off the list when it comes time to ...you know." He rattled off a short list. "Indonesians, South Americans ...hell, a whole shitioad of Chinese. They're, well, FOBs that need to be taken care of. I'd appreciate it if your people were hands-off on them. I'll fax you the names. What's your number there?"
Smith closed his eyes, calling up reserves of patience that were nearly tapped out. "Mr. President-" he began.
"Now don't take that tone with me, Smith," the President snapped, already knowing where the CURE director was heading. "I'm looking at legal bills up the yin-yang when I leave office, plus the banks won't trust me with a loan and I want a West Coast house. A nice one. With separate bedrooms, wall-to-wall shag and maybe a mirror or two on the ceiling. You know, tasteful. Those folks are just friends-generous friends-who somehow took an unlucky turn and wound up in East Africa at an unfortunate time. So before you unleash those two corpse-making machines of yours, I'm ordering you to shepherd my poor, wayward friends and their house-buying wallets out of harm's way."
Alone in his office, Smith shook his head. "I can only reiterate that which I have told you before," he said flatly. "CURE does not exist for your personal use. And I might add, Mr. President, that I am tired of having to tell you so."
He could almost feel the hot breath of the President hissing through the receiver. When he spoke, his voice was a low threat. "You won't have to tell me much longer."
That was it. No further arguments. The line went dead in Smith's hand.
With a deep breath, Smith replaced the cherry-red receiver in its cradle, sliding the drawer slowly back into place. His cracked leather chair creaked protest as he straightened. At least the call had been short.
Thinking of America's current chief executive, Smith could not help but realize how out of touch he actually was. Smith was a relic from another age, locked behind the protective glass of his Folcroft display case. In this new age, it was easy to lose one's idealism.
Tired eyes found his cursor, winking like a subterranean orb beneath the surface of his desk.
The list of names had stopped scrolling. Visible on the screen were dozens of names beginning with Z. Nearly all the men were connected with some Russian Mob group or another. All brought together by one man.
Smith had been one of the millions around the world who had greeted with optimism Willie Mandobar's release from prison and election to the East African presidency. Although he hadn't governed well, he had done so to the best of his abilities. He was by all accounts a decent man. Now this.