The other paper was an enlargement of a microfiche from the Women's Correctional Institution in Abbey's Way, Indiana:
Mr. George Barra, Warden Women's Correctional Institution
Dear Mr. Barra:
This is to inform you that your inmate #76146, Pamela Andrews (armed robbery, 25-life), continues to serve out her sentence satisfactorily under Hispania's voluntary work program.
May I extend my congratulations to you for your participation in this program. By permitting your prisoner to serve her term by performing much needed work in our country, you not only save your taxpayers many dollars in prisoner upkeep, but take a great leap forward in progressive penal reform as well.
I shall continue to inform you about the well-being of your inmate who has been transferred to our program, and offer you my best wishes.
General Robar Estomago Chief, National Security Patrol Republic of Hispania
A stack of similar letters, all dated two years earlier, were piled on the side of Smith's desk. He looked down at the notes he had made while reading.
All the prisoners sent to Hispania on Estomago's voluntary work program were women.
All were orphans.
All the letters to the prisons had been signed by Estomago.
All the prisoners were serving maximum sentences.
All were doing well, according to the letters. No deaths, not even accidental.
But not one of the CIA agents stationed in Hispania with Barney Daniels had recalled seeing any white women working on the island.
He looked again at the newspaper.
Calder Raisin, an ineffective leader in life, was a martyr in death. Blacks everywhere were rallying. Riots in Washington were feared.
The autopsy report on Raisin showed that he died from multiple contusions of the head caused by a variety of weapons. Daniels had been sent out to kill Raisin, yet Raisin had been killed by more than one man.
Gloria Sweeney had been in Hispania with Barney. Gloria Sweeney was now in New York, and probably tied up with Estomago.
A bomb in an envelope manufactured in Hispania had been placed to kill Barney Daniels.
And the blacks were marching.
The CURE director wheeled in his chair and looked out through his windows of one-way glass at Long Island Sound. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together and the picture that was forming was chilling.
First, there had been the appointment by Hispania's President De Culo of the American-hating Estomago as his U.N. ambassador.
And then, there were growing signs of Hispania drawing closer and closer to the Soviet Union.
Then, there was the ship. A Russian military ship, carrying what might have been nuclear equipment, had simply vanished on its way to Cuba. One day, it had been sixty miles from Cuba's shore. The next day, high altitude spy flights and spies inside Castro's empire couldn't find the ship. It had never arrived.
The report had arrived on Smith's desk and at first, he was willing to think it accident at sea. The ship had sunk. But as the days had gone on and the Russians had not announced the accidental loss of the ship, he had begun to wonder. And then, three weeks later, agents in Europe reported that the ship was returning through the Baltic sea.
So, where had it been?
Was it possible that the ship had swerved from its expected course at the last minute and arrived in Hispania to unload a shipful of nuclear weapons supplies?
Smith drummed a pencil against the back of his left hand. Ordinarily, he would had have discounted such a scare prospect as nuclear arms in Hispania. But there were other things that made it difficult to discount.
In European capitals, agents were picking up tips and rumors-rumors about a strike against the United States now being possible.
Was it possible? Could Russia be planning a strike against the United States? A missile strike launched from Hispania?
Gloria Sweeney and Estomago had been behind the killing of Raisin. Therefore they were responsible for the hundreds of thousands of blacks marching on Washington, D.C., right now. Was that part of some plan, to try to create such chaos and confusion in Washington that the nation's defenses might somehow be slackened? And what was the map that Barney Daniels had been talking about?
The CURE director sighed. So many questions; so few answers.
He would just have to wait for Remo to come back with some answers.
It did not occur to Smith to worry that while he was waiting, plans might be moving along to blow up a piece of the United States. Waiting was the correct thing to do. Therefore he would wait. And he would tell no one because the burden of responsibility was his and no one else's. So he put the problem out of his mind, turned back to his desk, and began to look through the month's vouchers for Folcroft Sanitarium.
He shook his head in annoyance. For the second straight month, the bill for bread had gone up and he was getting pretty sure that one of the kitchen workers was stealing some of those food supplies. Something would have to be done.
Chapter Fifteen
The big mosque on 114th Street was closed. Two black-suited guards watched the entrance, which was chained and padlocked.
Whistling, Remo strolled over to the chain and snapped it as though it were a peppermint stick.
"Wuffo you doing that shit," one of the Peaches of Mecca said as Remo walked through the gates toward the mosque. "I mean halt, man. Halt in the name of the Afro-Muslim Brotherhood."
"No time, boys," Remo called over his shoulder. "Catch you later."
"You gonna catch us right now," the other Peach said, and the two of them executed a flying tackle at Remo's knees.
He caught them in midair. Using one of them as a club, he twirled the man high overhead and smacked him into his companion's midsection with a thud. Two pairs of dazed brown eyes shone, unfocused, beneath their sweat-glistening shaved heads.
"You one mean mother," one of them said.
The other shook the fuzz out of his brain and staggered to his feet.
"In the name of Allah," he said as he pulled a blue-tinged knife out of his inside coat pocket, his eyes locked into Remo's.
Remo kicked. With one stroke the knife was lodged into the guard's throat, a stream of red trickling onto his white shirt collar and spreading. The man stiffened and trembled. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, but no sound came out.
He wobbled a few paces in a zigzag line toward Remo, then reeled and stumbled. His mouth formed half a word: "Mother ..."
Remo blew, and the small gust of air sent the man careening downward with a crash. "That's the biz, sweetheart," he said.
"Holy shit," the other Peach gasped as Remo turned to face him. "Look, man, I ain't got no knife, see?" Shaking, he opened his jacket. "No knives, no zip guns, not even a pea shooter. Just a country boy up here visiting my aunt Minnie, yes suh." He backed away. "Me, I'm strictly for nonviolence. Amen. Free at last." He took off at a brisk trot, peering behind him to see if Remo was following.
He wasn't. He didn't have any time to lose. He paused at the heavy double doors leading to the interior of the mosque just long enough to be impressed with the precision of their construction. It was airtight in there, and the doors must have weighed a half ton apiece. Whoever designed these doors was building a fortress, and preparing for siege.
Using a thrust from the elbow, he wedged his hand into the hairline crack between the two doors. It was solid steel, more than two inches thick. Feeling with his fingertips, he located the locking mechanism and jammed three fingers into it, releasing the lock with a deep pop, like a small explosion occurring far underground. Then he pushed with his shoulder to dislodge the interior bolt.
Inside, the mosque was as cold and silent as a cave. He passed room after empty room as he strode silently down the vast network of hallways and stairways, his feet barely touching the gleaming polished floors. He tapped on one of the walls. Steel. In a corner of the building, he felt with the balls of his feet for the underlying structure beneath the tile flooring. Again steel.