Mark Howard was using his coat as a blanket. It was tucked up under his chin as he slept. Howard was oblivious to the old man who was staring at him from across the room.
Smith had remained awake the entire night. Though exhausted, his eagle's gaze had not once shifted.
Smith's lower desk drawer was ajar. The lid of the cigar box that was ordinarily tucked far in the back was open. Inside the box Smith's old service automatic sat atop his cracked leather shoulder holster.
His first concern after his shocking encounter in the parking lot was that this was some sort of trap. Some individual, agency or government had learned of CURE.
But upon rapid consideration he realized that the means by which such an enemy would announce himself would almost certainly have been different.
To send no one but a shivering young man to stand alone in the nearly empty Folcroft parking lot didn't make sense.
After frisking Howard for weapons and recording devices and finding neither, Smith had reluctantly brought his guest back up to his office.
By then it was one o'clock in the morning and far too late to call the President.
At other times Smith would not have hesitated to call the White House, even at so ungodly an hour. But it was barely two weeks into the new President's first term, and the chief executive had yet to contact the head of CURE.
At first, most presidents were reluctant to communicate with the agency. When they did finally call, some merely did so just to see if there would be an answer on the other end of the line. Others waited until there was a crisis. In either case, the introduction was always an awkward moment, and so Smith made a habit out of not being the first to make contact.
This was the worst scenario he could think of to break that custom. If the new President had not sent Howard here, then the young man had found out about CURE by other means. Were this the case, then security had been compromised.
Smith's relationship with the last President had been strained. After the past eight years, this was not the kind of introduction he wanted to make to a new chief executive. It could only be worse to call in the middle of the night. And so, to dull the edge of what might be a disaster for CURE, Smith waited for a more respectable hour to call.
Through the night, he had not even been able to use work as a distraction. He dared not turn on his computer. Dared not expose any more of what was going on here to the snoring stranger across the room.
And so he sat. Staring.
Smith was still watching the man on his couch when he was startled by the abrupt opening of his office door.
Smith instinctively darted for his gun. When he saw who it was entering his inner sanctum, he quickly slid his desk drawer shut, concealing the automatic.
"Good morning, Dr. Smith," Eileen Mikulka said pleasantly as she walked into the room. She balanced a small serving tray on her forearm. On the tray was a steaming cup of coffee and two slices of dry toast.
This was one of Mrs. Mikulka's daily duties, and one that she made it a point not to miss.
In days long gone, Dr. Smith had sometimes found time to golf in the mornings. Once in a while when he was gone there were important sanitarium documents that needed his attention. The papers were couriered to his home. On these occasions, according to sanitarium lore, Mrs. Smith had always been delighted to greet company and insisted that they have something to eat. Afterward, when next there came a time that something needed to be delivered to the Folcroft director's home, whoever went last invariably refused to go.
Everyone around Folcroft knew that Mrs. Smith was a very nice, very lonely woman, as well as a notoriously bad cook.
And so Mrs. Mikulka had taken it upon herself to see to it that her employer at least ate something decent during the day. At 7:00 a.m. every morning, come rain or shine, she delivered a plate of toast and a cup of coffee to the Folcroft director's office.
Mrs. Mikulka was stepping across the threadbare carpet when a noise behind her nearly caused her to drop her tray. Startled, she looked over her shoulder. Someone on the couch was just stirring awake.
"Oh," she said, surprised that her employer was not alone. She grew even more surprised when she saw who it was pushing himself to a sitting position on Smith's sofa.
When she glanced at her employer, she saw that his tired gray eyes were rimmed with dark bags. "Is everything all right, Dr. Smith?" Mrs. Mikulka asked. When she looked back, the patient young medical-supplies salesman from the previous day was rubbing sleep from his eyes. Standing in front of Smith's desk, she seemed unsure whether she should say hello or call security.
"It's quite all right, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said.
"Oh. Very well." Hesitantly, she set plate and mug to Smith's desk. She still was not sure what to make of this. "Would you like something, sir?" she asked Howard.
"No, thanks," Mark said, stretching. "How late's the cafeteria serve breakfast?"
"Oh, um, eleven o'clock."
"I'll grab something later," he said, smiling. Mrs. Mikulka nodded. Clutching the plastic tray like a shield to her ample bosom, she left the room. As she was closing the door, Mark climbed to his feet. Stifling a yawn, he checked his watch. Because of the cast on his wrist, he wore it on his left arm. "It's probably okay to call now," he ventured. Smith nodded crisply. Before opening the right-hand drawer where the special White House line was secreted, he pulled open the lower left drawer, once more exposing his automatic pistol. Smith took out an old-fashioned cherry-red phone, placing it on the desk next to his toast and coffee.
As Howard stood patiently before him, tie loosened and suit rumpled, the CURE director lifted the receiver.
THE PRESIDENT of the United States was getting dressed when the pager on his belt buzzed.
His wife was sound asleep beneath a mound of blankets. Although she had been a political wife for some time, she had not been prepared for the attention she was getting as First Lady. The past few weeks had worn her out.
Leaving his jacket at the foot of the bed, the President tiptoed from the room. Walking briskly, he headed down the main hallway of the family quarters, past the private elevator. He ducked into the Lincoln Bedroom.
Like many other rooms in the White House, the Lincoln Bedroom had recently been hastily refurnished with antiques from the Smithsonian Institution. The remodeling became necessary after it was discovered that the previous occupants of the White House had left under cover of darkness with a wagonload of priceless antiques. Over the past week some of the missing national treasures had begun quietly showing up at an online auction house. The highest bid for the framed original copy of the Emancipation Proclamation was currently $2,350.50, not including shipping.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, the new President opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand and removed the dial-less red phone that sat alone inside.
Hand on the receiver, he steeled himself for a moment before lifting it to his ear.
"Yes?" he said. His faint Southern twang was noticeable even on the single syllable.
"Good morning, Mr. President," a sharp voice replied.
The President was surprised at how tart it sounded. His predecessor had been right about the voice. It was like lemons mixed with grapefruit.
"This is Smith, I presume?" the President said.
"Yes, sir," Smith answered crisply. "Mr. President, do you know a man by the name of Mark Howard? He claims to have been sent here by you."
That was it. Straight on to business. No apologies for the early hour, no further pleasantries, no nothing. After the endless parade of smoke blowers he had dealt with over the past year, this Smith was like a breath of fresh air.
"Yes, I sent Mark there," the President replied.
"May I ask why?" Smith said.