Remo jerked a thumb at the splashing lawyer. "What about this idiot?"
"He no longer matters."
"But he tried to feed me to the fish. Literally."
"Candiru," Kranish bleated, tears streaming from his eyes. "Innocent endangered baby candiru."
Remo stepped back from the pool.
Barry Kranish stumbled up, eyes blazing with fear. He stood on the edge of the pool, not sure which was more critical-drinking his so-called libation or getting out of his clothes in order to examine his bodily orifices for spiny intruders.
He ultimately decided to do both.
Remo and Chiun left him squirming at poolside, half in and half out of his clothes, chugalugging viscous jagua juice in sobbing gulps.
Chapter 10
If a human being could truly be called a human chameleon, Dr. Harold W. Smith was a perfect specimen. He possessed the unique ability to blend into any social situation. Especially if the background was a bland, neutral gray.
Smith wore his gray three-piece suit like a badge of uniformity. His crisp hair was a lighter shade of gray, as were his weak eyes. Even his skin possessed a grayish tinge. Only his tie-a striped Dartmouth school tie-displayed any color. If Dr. Smith possessed a soul-and there was some doubt about this-no doubt it would have been gray, as well.
If anything, Dr. Smith resembled a stuffy university professor, perhaps the chairman of the Social Science Department of a rustic New England college. The nameplate on his door said "Dr. Harold W. Smith, Director." Only three other persons knew that Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, was cover for CURE and that Smith was its director too.
His mouth was a prim line in his studious gray face as he bent over his computer terminal, which, at the touch of a button, could be sent sinking back into a concealed well in his desk. The prim line deepened into a worried frown.
Luminous green lines of text scrolled up his screen-data feeds processed by the bank of powerful computers that huddled two floors below his Spartan office overlooking Long Island Sound.
While Remo and Chiun pursued their end of the La Plomo investigation, Smith had been following the trail of the Lewisite gas that had been loosed on the defenseless Missouri town. After Remo had reported his discovery of the empty gas canisters, Smith had dutifully informed the President of the United States, his direct superior.
The President had ordered the gas canisters removed to an FBI lab for analysis. The preliminary results, moving through the phone lines to the White House and designated "Eyes Only of the President," had been intercepted by Smith's computers. Their ability to reach out and capture free-flowing data was unrivaled.
The FBI report was succinct. Smith's computers had automatically compressed them into an easy-to-read summary. The gist was that the poison gas was U.S. Army war surplus.
With the post-cold-war build-down, Army stockpiles were ending up in some strange places. These gas canisters had been mislabled as pesticide and sold through a General Accounting Office auction, whose proceeds went to lowering the national debt.
"My God!" Smith gasped as the cold facts sank in.
The red phone at Smith's right hand suddenly rang. An ordinary standard desk model except for lack of a dial, it was a dedicated line to the White House.
Smith lifted it to his ear.
"Yes, Mr. President?" he asked, adjusting his rimless glasses.
"Smith," said the nasal voice of the President of the United States, "I've just received a report on that poison-gas thing. You'll never believe this. It was-"
"Sold by the GAO as pesticide," Smith supplied dryly.
The President gasped. "That's right. How'd you know?"
Because he did not wish the President of the United States to know that his own phones were subject to CURE interception, Smith said, "I have my own sources," and changed the subject. "I understand there is no ID on the final purchaser."
"No. It was a cash transaction. The FBI's hit a dead end."
"Not necessarily. A good FBI sketch of the buyer may give us something to pursue."
"I'll have them get right on it," the President said quickly.
"Do not bother," Smith said crisply. "I will handle that on this end."
"Very well. How are your people doing with that neutron-bomb insanity?"
"It's too early to tell," Smith said evasively.
"Well, I think you were right-exactly right-to put them on that detail," the President confided. "We can't have college students building nuclear devices. What with the crazy college kids these days, there's no telling what might happen. No telling."
"There's more to it than that," Smith said. "I have reason to believe that Dirt First!! was behind the gas attack."
"I'll have the FBI sweep the whole lot of them up. Criticize my environmental record, will they? I'll show 'em."
"No," Smith said flatly. "At the moment, our evidence is circumstantial. But their appearance on the La Plomo scene smacks of exactly the kind of publicity stunt they're known to indulge in."
"My God!" the President said hoarsely. "Is that what you think this is all about-a publicity stunt?"
"It is a theory. They were badly discredited last year when two of their members were injured in a bombing that turned out to have been the work of other members of the group who advocate using violence to protect the environment. They need to have their credibility restored. I am assuming Dirt First!! obtained the Lewisite, deployed it, and then showed up to reap the publicity benefit of an apparent chemical-storage accident."
"The girl who built the bomb. You think she's connected with these loonies?" "Unknown," Smith admitted. "I suspect otherwise. The La Plomo event has drawn a great number of protest groups. She may have been just another of those. But her appearance was unfortunate. My best estimate is that Dirt First!! exhausted their entire gas supply on La Plomo. The neutron bomb unfortunately represents a clear substitute for poison gas."
"You think they intend to use it?"
"We have to assume the worst-case scenario. You see, Mr. President, it all ties together."
"Except for one thing."
"And that is?"
"If these people are so committed to the environment, why the hell are they going around doing these crazy things? They say they want to save the redwoods, then drive spikes into them as if they're leafy vampires. They claim their goal is to preserve the environment for future generations, but they don't seem to give a hang about the generation trying to make a living today. Can you explain any of that to me?"
"No, I cannot," Smith said crisply. "I will get back to you when I have progress to report on either front."
"Thank you, Dr. Smith," said the President. "God bless."
Smith returned to his computer and began to input commands that would be routed to the FBI as if coming from the Department of Justice.
Within twenty minutes an FBI forensic sketch artist was parked at a drawing board, an official report tacked to one corner and an open line to a GAO auctioneer in hand. Wondering what was so important, he developed a charcoal sketch of the person described to him.
This image was soon faxed to FBI branches nationwide.
In Rye, New York, Smith watched his own copy of the FBI sketch come off his machine.
The man looked to be between forty and fifty years old, with short hair and what looked to be an old hippie-style headband circling his forehead. Even the hair over his ears stuck out a little under the headband's pressure.
The man did not otherwise look like a typical headband wearer, so Smith read over the artist's remarks in the left-hand margin.
There it was noted that the distinct line was not a headband, but a pressure impression. The artist speculated it was created by a habitually worn headband or possibly a hat.
Otherwise, the man was undistinguished.
"Dirt First!!" Smith said softly, nodding to himself. He dropped the sheet of fax paper into an oldfashioned wire basket so that it settled into place with mathematical precision.