The Master of Sinanju was still deep in thought. Offering only the slightest of nods to the director and associate director of CURE, he padded quietly out the door.
Once they were gone, Howard turned back to Smith, a questioning look on his wide face.
"There is no need to weigh them down with minutiae," Smith assured him absently. The older man was fussing at his keyboard once more."
"If you say so, Dr. Smith," Howard said. "If we're done here, I'll be in my of-"
"Please sit."
Mark was halfway out of his chair. The coldly precise words of the CURE director froze him in place. It was clear by his tone that something was wrong. Unsure what he'd done, Mark slowly lowered himself back to his seat.
Behind his desk, Smith had taken on the disapproving look of a strict boys-school headmaster. His mouth pinched in a thin frown, he scanned his monitor briefly before raising his eyes to meet Howard's.
"How did you know of the situation in Alaska yesterday?" Smith asked. His gaze never wavered.
Just a moment's hesitation. "Well, the President-"
"You knew of it before you left for Washington," Smith interrupted. "I have been going over your computer records. You used the time just before leaving for the airport to search for any anomalous activity there. What's more, in our meeting yesterday you suddenly seemed to think that I had mentioned something about Alaska when I had not. Now, under different circumstances I might assume you were involved in whatever is happening there. However, you are well above average intelligence. You would know that I have full access to your computer. And it seems highly improbable that, were you involved, you would blurt it out in front of me. Therefore, I must conclude that you are innocent but were somehow still possessed with the knowledge that something was wrong. So I will ask you again, how did you know?"
The CURE director's eyes were hard gray truth detectors, boring straight through to Mark Howard's soul.
Mark considered lying. After all, he had successfully done so on this topic for almost his whole life. But he could not escape the penetrating gaze of Harold W. Smith. Shoulders sinking, Howard shook his head.
"I don't know how," the young man said, exhaling. "I just had a feeling."
Smith's lemony face grew interested. "Explain."
"I really can't, Dr. Smith," Mark said. "It came to me while we were talking yesterday. Just a sense that something might be wrong. I wanted to check to confirm, but I couldn't find anything before I went to Washington. Then Kakwik happened, and it turned out I was right. But I still don't know how it came to me in the first place."
Smith didn't see anything deceptive in the younger man's body language. He seemed certain of what he was saying, yet simultaneously frustrated by his own claim.
"It came to you," Smith said evenly. "Are you suggesting that this is some form of psychic phenomenon?"
Howard's head snapped up. "No, sir," he insisted. "It's just some weird thing that happens sometimes."
"You are saying that this is not the first time?" Howard's reluctance seemed to return. "No," he said hesitantly. "I've been able to do it a long time. It's sort of a sixth sense, I guess."
Smith considered Howard's words. "It is possible that your mind simply works differently," he ventured after a thoughtful pause.
Mark's face showed cautious relief. "You believe me?" he asked.
"When I was your age, I probably would not have," Smith admitted. "However, I have seen enough that I no longer dismiss such claims out of hand. How do these episodes manifest themselves? In words? Images?"
"Both," Mark said. "Sometimes neither. With that Raffair business a few weeks back, it was mostly newspaper articles and on-line stories. It's sort of an instinct that directs conscious thought."
The CURE director nodded. "If you indeed possess such an ability, I would assume that this is precisely the case," Smith said. "Every minute of the day, the human subconscious is bombarded with much more information than it could ever possibly process. A natural filtering absorbs data that is necessary while at the same time disregarding that which is not. Perhaps your subconscious is better able to detect what others might ignore. It then forces the data up into the conscious realm in what you describe as a sixth sense."
Howard offered a wry smile. "I've been through all the possible explanations before, Dr. Smith," he said. "That one's always been the most comforting. It still doesn't go far enough, though."
His brow creasing, Smith leaned back in his chair. "That will be all for now," the older man said. "However, if you have any further insights that might be considered out of the norm, do not keep them to yourself."
Mark nodded. "Yes, sir," he said. As he got to his feet he was now clearly relieved. "Thanks, Dr. Smith."
He was at the door when Smith called to him. "And, Mark, it would be wise if you did not share your intimate involvement in the Raffair matter with either Remo or Master Chiun. They lost their home during that assignment. Since it was you who initially called attention to the criminal activity at that time, I would not want them to ascribe any misplaced blame to you."
Howard gave a lopsided smile. "You and me both," he said, and slipped out the door.
When the door had closed and he was alone once more, Smith took the arms of his battered leather chair in both gnarled hands. He turned slowly.
Beyond Folcroft's sloping rear lawn, Long Island Sound sparkled in the winter sunlight. Smith gazed at the water without seeing. Lost in thought.
Lately, he had been contemplating more and more the end of CURE. For Harold W. Smith, that end would bring down the final curtain on a life that had been almost exclusively dedicated to country.
In the watch pocket of his gray vest was a coffin-shaped pill. When his last day as director of CURE finally arrived, that small capsule would insure that any secrets Smith possessed would die along with him. And, Smith had generally assumed, CURE as an agency would die, too.
But in the past few days the world had changed dramatically. And with it, for the first time in a long time, Harold Smith felt a touch of unaccustomed optimism. It was possible that he and his agency would no longer die together. CURE's life span could conceivably be open-ended.
With that realization came a surprising irony. For a long time now, Smith had been exhausted. His advancing years and the constant pressure of his demanding job had been taking their toll. But these past few days had been different.
Oddly, the addition of Mark Howard to the CURE staff seemed to be having an invigorating effect on Smith. He could feel it in his stride, in his mind. Smith still felt the pains in his joints and the inevitable slowing down that came naturally with age, but it was not the distraction it had been these past few years. With a protege, Smith now had a new purpose: to impress on Mark Howard the seriousness of their work here at Folcroft.
Nothing at CURE could be taken lightly. Smith had been a relatively young man when he was first drafted into the agency. A CIA analyst like Howard, Smith was about to retire from the intelligence game to take a position teaching law at Dartmouth, his alma mater. But history beckoned and Harold Smith heeded the call. His life before that time had not been without difficulty, but it turned out that it was only a prelude to what was to come. Only when he became director of CURE did Smith finally feel real pressure.
At first the task to save America seemed insurmountable. But eventually he found the help he would need. The moment the Master of Sinanju stepped off that first submarine so many years ago, things changed. When Remo was shanghaied into the organization not long after, CURE seemed complete. The secret agency had lucked into a tight group of three men who, by an amazing quirk of fate, complemented one another.