"What do you want?"
"It is simple. It is fair. For more than a decade, America has had a secret weapon to handle its domestic affairs."
"That is our right," the President bristled.
"I will not disagree with you. The question of the illegalities of this enforcement arm of yours is your political problem. We in Russia have had similar arrangements in the past, our KGB, and before that the Cheka. But my country is concerned over the use of this CURE apparatus in international affairs."
"Specifically?"
"Specifically, we do not know. We have no proof yet that your CURE has operated on our soil. But there have been many strange incidents among agents of our foreign service. Projects mysteriously abandoned. Agents killed in odd ways. Others who disappeared. We have never been able to account for these failures. I will not ask you about them now. Most took place prior to my regime, and they belong to the past."
"What do you want?" the President repeated.
"Before I place my demands before you, let me point out to you that you have been employing an agent-I refer to the illustrious Master of' Sinanju-who comes from our sphere of influence. You have made numerous secret submarine landings-according to this tape and another in our possession-in North Korean waters. Communist waters."
"No comment."
"Good. You understand the political damage of that revelation alone and apart from the business of CURE. Then understand I am only asking for what rightfully belongs to Mother Russia."
"Belongs-!"
"We want the Master of Sinanju. We want CURE erased from existence. And we want this Remo person."
"So you can meddle in international affairs? This is blackmail."
"No. We merely want an advantage that America has enjoyed in secret for many years. Now it is Russia's turn."
"Blackmail."
"Such a harsh word. I prefer to call it parity."
"Remo is a patriot. He won't work for you. And I can't turn him over to you. That would be a deed more politically damaging than if the world sees that tape."
The Premier considered.
"Abandon CURE. Give us the Master of Sinanju. And let us negotiate with this Remo. If he turns us down, what would you do with him?"
"Remo would have to die."
"So let it be that way. Our mutual problem is solved."
"I can't turn CURE over to you. It would be a knife at America's throat."
"I understand your fear. Let me quell it. I do not want the Master of Sinanju to enforce our political will in your hemisphere. I wish to use him as you have, to make our system of government work in spite of its flaws. Crime is growing in Russia. Drunkenness, laxity in the work force. These are Russia's deepest ills. You know that I have been trying to solve them."
"Yes, I know."
"Then you can sympathize with my plight. The plight of Mother Russia. We want a dose of your CURE, too."
The President's mind worked furiously. He wished he had his advisers here now. But if he did, they would have to die after advising him. He was all alone in this one.
Finally he said, "I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't."
"Not exactly. If you'd like I could draw up a treaty assuring you that Russia would not employ the Master of Sinanju outside of the so-called Soviet bloc for a grace period of, say twenty-five years. Surely that is a greater period than the lifespan of the current Master of Sinanju."
"Who would draw up the treaty? You? Me? We can't trust anyone else with the knowledge."
"I see your point," the General Secretary said. "Then let us trust to a handshake."
"I have no choice," the President said stiffly, rising to his feet. "I will issue the directive to disband CURE immediately. Give me a day to work out the details. The rest is up to you."
The General Secretary shook the President's hand warmly, and grinned.
"And our representative will approach the Master of Sinanju about new employment. As they say in your country, it is a pleasure doing business with you."
The President mumbled something under his breath that the Russian leader took to be some informal acknowledgment, and he nodded even as he made a mental note to ask his official English tutor the meaning of the colloquial American phrase "Up yours."
In Rye, New York, Dr. Harold W. Smith was having an ordinary day. The sun shone through the big one-way windows. Outside it was pleasantly warm for this late in the fall and there were boaters on Long Island Sound.
His secretary, Eileen Mikulka, a bosomy middle-aged woman wearing bifocals, had just dropped off the preliminary budget sheets for Folcroft's next quarter.
"That will be all, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said.
"Yes, Dr. Smith," Mrs. Mikulka said crisply. At the door, she turned to add, "Oh, I spoke with the electrical contractor this morning."
"Um-hum," Smith said absently, immersed in the budget forms.
"They'll be here tomorrow to look at the backup generator."
"Fine. Thank you."
"You're welcome, Dr. Smith," Mrs. Mikulka said, closing the door. She wondered if her employer had understood any of what she had said. That man could get so absorbed in his columns of figures. Well, she would remind him again tomorrow.
It was an ordinary day. Which in the life of Harold W. Smith meant an extraordinary day. His early-morning scan of incoming CURE-related data had revealed only updates of ongoing situations. No action was required on any of them. And so Dr. Harold W. Smith was spending his day actually working on Folcroft affairs-something he usually delegated to his secretary.
He did not expect the phone call from the President of the United States. And he did not expect this particular call.
Smith let the direct line to the White House ring several times before answering. He did not do this out of self-importance, but to emphasize the true nature of CURE's unwritten charter. The President who had originally set up CURE had been aware of the possibility of abuse of the enormous power of the organization. Not by Smith-who was considered too patriotic and, more important, too unimaginative to implement a power grab-but by a future President. Thus, Dr. Harold W. Smith was entirely autonomous. The President could not order CURE into action. He was limited to three options: imparting information on developing situations; suggesting specific missions; and-and here, the check-and-balance system reversed itself-he could order CURE to disband.
Dr. Harold W. Smith picked up the telephone on the fifth ring, assuming the President was calling to invoke one of the first two options.
"Yes, Mr. President," Smith said coolly. He never let himself become friendly with any of the Presidents under which he served. He refused to vote for the same reason.
"I'm sorry to have to do this, Dr. Smith," said the familiar garrulous tones, now strangely subdued.
"Mr. President?"
"I hereby direct you to disband your organization. Effective immediately."
"Mr. President," said Smith, betraying surprise in spite of himself, "I know America is edging closer to no longer needing this organization, but don't you think this is precipitous?"
"I have no choice."
"Sir?"
"We've been compromised. The Soviets know all about us."
"I can assure you there's been no leak from this end," Smith said stiffly. It was typical of him that he thought first of his reputation, and not of the more personal consequences of the presidential order.
"I know. I have just met with the Soviet General Secretary. The bastard handed me a videotape of your people. They spilled their guts to the camera."
"Remo and Chiun? They're in Sinanju."
"According to what the transcript of the tapes says-and I don't dare verify it for obvious reasons-Remo has gone over to the other side."
"To the Russians? I can't believe that."
"No, not to the Russians. He's defected to North Korea. He's agreed to work for his teacher's village. It's on the damned tape."