Smith was director of Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, the secret headquarters for the organization known only as CURE. In his position, he had seen much that was bad in America. It was CURE's charter to deal with each national crisis as it came along. But as Smith stared out into the inky blackness of eternity-a man in the twilight of his life-he thought that it might be nice for a change for CURE to be involved in something good.
The BBQ project seemed on the surface to be nothing but good. What could be more noble than a desire to feed the hungry? Smith wondered who might want to thwart such a plan.
According to a media report, Dr. White had attacked a reporter earlier in the day. Reading between the lines, Smith determined that it might have been frustration that drove her to do it. Perhaps whoever had stolen the animals was in collusion with the reporter. Perhaps it was partly vengeance, partly a desire on the part of the reporter to create a story. It had happened with the press before.
Whatever the reason, Harold W. Smith had made up his mind that CURE would do something good even before the blue contact phone rang atop his desk.
"Remo?" the CURE director said crisply into the receiver. His voice was squeezed lemons.
"Smitty, it's one o'clock in the morning. Who else would it be?" Remo's familiar voice replied. Smith drew his eyes away from the black waters of the Sound. "I need not remind you that Chiun also has this number," he said.
"Chiun is still locked away meditating like some freaking Korean monk," Remo said, irked. Somewhere close behind him, a car horn honked.
"You are not home?" Smith asked.
"No way," Remo answered. "I'm hiding out at the airport. I've been getting this creepy Norman Bates feeling every time I look up at his window."
Smith didn't understand the cultural reference. He chose to ignore it. "What of your assignment?" he asked.
"You got a twofer, Smitty," Remo said. He actually seemed pleased. "You didn't tell me Kershaw Ferngard was in the same prison as Grautski."
"Yes," Smith said. "I heard he had been moved from New York. Minister Linus Feculent had been working to have him freed as a victim of racial injustice. The authorities thought it would quiet things down if he was not in close proximity to Feculent or network cameras."
"Well, if Dan Rather wants to interview either of them, he's going to have to bring a sponge and a pail."
Smith nodded in satisfaction. He swiveled in his chair, looking back out across Long Island Sound. There were no lights visible now. No angels guiding anyone home.
"I have another assignment for you," Smith said as he stared out into the lifeless black night.
"Fine with me," Remo said affably. "So long as it keeps me away from home."
Smith went on to quickly brief Remo about the genetic creations at BostonBio and the opportunity to use them as a cure to world hunger. He finished with the mysterious theft of the creatures.
"And you want me to go find them?" Remo asked once Smith was finished. He sounded surprised.
"It is not an ordinary CURE assignment, granted," Smith said "However, the world stage is quiet at the moment. And it sounds as if the local authorities could use the help."
"Hey, you don't have to sell me on the idea, Smitty," Remo remarked. "It'll be nice to be involved in something that's sort of for the good of the world for a change."
Smith was surprised that Remo shared his sentiment on the subject, but said nothing.
"There might be an added problem," he cautioned. "There was a murder in Boston a few hours ago. It was in the vicinity of the lab where the Bos camelus-whitus was created. The body of a local merchant was found mauled in an alley. His throat and abdomen had been shredded, and most of his organs had been removed."
"Eaten?" Remo asked.
"Presumably."
"So these things are vicious."
"I am not certain," Smith admitted slowly. "I saw raw video footage of the creatures posted on the home page of one of the local network affiliates. They seem docile. But as we both know, looks-as far as the ability to kill is involved-can be deceiving."
"So much for helping out mankind," Remo said, dryly. "Sounds like these dips have turned Bean Town into Jurassic Park III."
"It is possible that this attack has nothing to do with the lab specimens," Smith said. "There have been cases of wild animals in urban areas before. Wolves and coyotes in Central Park and moose running loose in Boston, for instance. This could be a big cat that has somehow made its way into the city. It might have nothing at all to do with the BBQs."
"Within walking distance of the lab?" Remo said doubtfully. "Don't bet the sanitarium on it, Smitty."
"Be that as it may, I want you to learn what you can and report your findings back to me."
He gave CURE's enforcement arm the address of BostonBio and the full name of the director of the BBQ project.
"Dr. Judith White," Remo said. "Got it." Smith was about to hang up.
"And Smitty?" Remo offered hesitantly.
Smith paused. "Yes?"
"If you hear from Chiun, don't tell him I was itching to stay away from home. If it puts him on the snot, he'll say I misaligned him again. I can't take another two months of him locked away straightening out his pretzeled psyche."
"Very well," Smith agreed. He severed the connection.
After he had replaced the blue receiver, Smith's gaze strayed back to the window behind him and the water beyond.
It was very late. He should begin to think about going home for the night.
As he stared off blankly into space, a light suddenly appeared like a sparkling diamond on the surface of the water far away.
One of Smith's angels?
Smith sat up more alertly in his chair. He stared at the distant light. As quickly as it had appeared, it vanished from sight.
Sitting behind his comfortable desk in his familiar Spartan office, Harold W. Smith got a sudden, unexplainable twinge of concern. Though he tried to dismiss it, he could not. Frowning, he turned back slowly to his computer.
Chapter 4
By the following morning, Boston's local media outlets were all eagerly linking the gruesome death of bookstore owner Hal Ketchum to the theft of the BBQs from the genetics laboratory of BostonBio.
Mutant Monsters Panic Hub! screamed the headline of the Boston Messenger, a paper not famous for its temperate reporting of the news. In an editorial, the more sedate Boston Blade managed to link the entire series of events to supply-side economics. Not surprising. The paper regularly blamed everything from teen pregnancy to the JonBenet Ramsey murder on the devil decade of the 1980s. For their park, the local television stations were no less gleeful to throw gasoline on the raging fire of hysteria.
A BostonBio security guard was scanning a bored eye along the lines of typically vitriolic Blade text when Remo Williams stepped through the gleaming glass doors of the corporation's main office complex. Sunlight streamed in across the floor as Remo approached the desk.
The guard didn't look up from the paper. "I am not a spokesman for BostonBio. I am under contract not to discuss anything that occurs within the buildings or complex of BostonBio. No one at BostonBio is granting interviews at this time. Please leave me the hell alone."
His nasal voice was bored as he ran through the speech he had repeated at least three dozen times since his shift started at seven that morning. When he was finished, he crinkled the paper, folding it to the sports section. He didn't get a chance to check on any of Boston's chronically losing teams.
"I'm not a reporter," Remo explained to him. The guard looked up, surprised the visitor hadn't left. His nose bumped a laminated ID card. "Remo Post. Department of Agriculture," Remo said, holding out the ID. "I'm here about last night's theft."