He took one and stuffed the unfamiliar object inside. A souvenir for Smith. Something else to confound the CURE director.
Shutting off the cab lights, he jumped down to the ground. Envelope in hand, Remo stole off into the night.
Chapter 9
As the first bleary streaks of dawn began to rake the gray-tinged sky over Long Island Sound, the light of the new day found Harold W. Smith already at work.
Smith had taken care of the day's sanitarium business in the predawn darkness. It was the work of CURE to which he now devoted himself.
After a scant ten minutes perusing the digests culled by CURE's basement mainframes during their sleepless night patrolling the electronic netherworld of the World Wide Web, Smith had determined that there was nothing that would require calling Remo off his BostonBio assignment.
Things were quiet in the world. What Smith saw now were the usual mundane, day-to-day affairs that the Folcroft Four-his name for the quartet of mainframes-collected from a wide variety of sources.
A crooked judge in Fresno.
A seeming new drug pipeline from South America.
Rival Mafia factions involved in a turf dispute at a New England fishing port.
Nothing worthy of Remo's particular talents. Smith accessed the latest information on the BBQ situation. As he expected, there was nothing new. It was early yet. If Remo had already found the creatures, it might not be reported to the press for several hours.
He hoped that Remo was successful. In his rockribbed Yankee soul, Smith could not fathom why someone would want to derail a project devoted solely to the benefit of mankind. But then, Smith's analytical mind had always had difficulty comprehending irrationality.
As he pondered the BostonBio situation, his computer emitted a small electronic beep. Smith adjusted his rimless glasses as he turned his attention to whatever it was the Folcroft Four had found. Nimble fingers accessed the new file. He was surprised to find that it was related to Remo and Chiun.
The program was part of a complex system Smith had established to keep track of CURE's operatives. It trolled the Net in search of their names, creditcard uses, bank withdrawals or anything else that might be of import.
Smith's bloodless lips pursed as he read the report.
Ordinarily, the computer system would disregard the telephone bills Remo received at the home he shared with the Master of Sinanju. It was only programmed to respond in the event of a large anomaly in any of the monetary transactions of either Remo or Chiun.
As Smith scanned down the lines of the phone company invoice, he was dismayed to see dozens of long-distance phone calls. All were to the same four numbers in California. Smith recognized the 818 prefix of Burbank and the 213 of Los Angeles. These showed up more than any other.
The total bill came to $587.42.
Smith knew Remo all too well. There was no way CURE's enforcement arm would have stayed on the phone with anyone that long. It had to be Chiun.
But whom would the Master of Sinanju be calling in California? Especially when Remo said the old Korean had been meditating in isolation the past several weeks.
Remo and Chiun's last assignment had taken them both to California. It was possible that Chiun had met someone there with whom he was now conversing. The thought troubled Smith. The wizened Asian had a habit of blurting out the nature of his work to anyone who would listen. Fortunately, the people who heard his claims of being a master assassin in the employ of America were either eventual victims of CURE or merely disregarded Chiun as a delusional old man.
The Master of Sinanju was up to something. What it was, Smith had no idea. But over the years, he had developed a keen sixth sense when it came to the wily old Korean. And whenever Chiun got involved in something new, it usually wound up costing Smith money. Reminding himself to ask Remo about the bill, Smith switched back to his regular work.
When his desk phone rang forty-five minutes later, however, Smith was so engrossed in his work that he forgot completely about the outlandish telephone bill.
"Smith," he said crisply, receiver tucked between shoulder and ear.
"Morning, Smitty."
In the kitchen of his condominium more than 150 miles up the East Coast, Remo kept his voice low. Since his return home the previous evening, there had been stirring sounds coming from the Master of Sinanju's bedchambers. Chiun's meditation phase seemed about to end, and Remo didn't want to be blamed for causing cosmic disturbances in its waning hours.
"What have you to report on the BostonBio situation?" the CURE director asked.
"You mean you haven't heard?" Remo said, surprised.
Smith got an instant sinking feeling in the churning pit of his ulcer-lined stomach. "What is wrong?"
"I guess that means you haven't." Remo took a deep breath. "Remember that little murder thing near the lab?"
"The bookstore owner? What of it?"
"Looks like BostonBio had better dust off its liability policy."
Smith's prim mouth thinned. "How can you be certain the creatures were responsible?" he asked.
"Because I saw what these things are capable of last night," Remo said, voice grim. "Let's just say they're not candidates for the petting zoo at Santa's Happy Village."
Before Smith could press for details, a screen-inscreen file automatically opened at one corner of his buried monitor. AP text appeared in even lines.
"One moment, please," Smith said to Remo. Using his keyboard, Smith clicked the window to full size. He quickly digested the wire-story report. "Remo, there was an incident last night west of Boston. Two trucks were found in the woods near Concord prison. Six mutilated bodies were discovered near the vehicles. They were flagged due to their similarity to the original death near BostonBio."
In his Massachusetts kitchen, Remo frowned. "I didn't know about the second truck or the other three bodies."
"They were found a half mile away from one another," Smith explained. "Obscured by woods."
"Hmm," Remo mused. "Anyway, looks like the BBQs are going postal. Oh, and HETA's in on the party, too."
"The animal-rights group?" Smith queried.
"It was their commandos who swiped the one eyed, one-horned, flying purple people-eaters from BostonBio. The local HETA chapter had set up a switch last night with a group farther west. They were doing the whole Born Free thing until their cargo got the munchies."
In his Spartan Folcroft office, Smith removed his glasses. He massaged the bridge of his patrician nose.
"How many of the creatures escaped?"
Remo hesitated. "This is where it gets a little tricky. My best count puts it at one."
Smith paused for a moment before speaking. He lowered his spotless glasses to his onyx desk, hand rock steady.
"Remo, that is impossible, given the number of deaths. Surely while one of their fellows was being mauled at each truck, either one or both of the remaining two HETA people could have sought shelter in the cab or trailer. There must have been more than one."
"Should have been. Wasn't," Remo insisted. "Only one as far as I could tell." He hesitated to relay the next bit of information. "Although there were two sets of tracks."
"Explain."
Remo went on to tell him about the footprints at the rear of the truck and the distinctly different tracks that led into the cornfield.
"You could not be mistaken?" Smith said once he was through.
"No way, Smitty," Remo insisted. "Two sets of tracks. One animal. I'm sure of it."
Smith considered. "That is a mystery," he admitted. "However, we are dealing with what is essentially a new life-form. It is possible that this ability to alter its step is some form of self-preservation endemic to this species. Perhaps it only surfaces during a killing phase."