The helicopter waited for him in the clearing. Smith would have preferred to have the helicopter pick him up at Folcroft, but he had done that once already in the last year and it would raise suspicions if two military helicopters were forced down on the Folcroft grounds by "mechanical difficulties."
Smith stepped aboard without a word. The helicopter pilot sent the craft into the air. As far as he knew, Smith was a VIP he was shuttling to Kennedy International Airport on orders from the Pentagon. He had no inkling that no one in the Pentagon had initiated those orders. They had come from the lemon-faced man's computers to Pentagon computers and been relayed to an individual who had no idea where the instructions had originated.
As the helicopter clattered to Kennedy International and a waiting military plane, Smith opened the briefcase on his lap and booted up the portable computer it contained. He punched up certain files. The unit spat out photocopy-perfect laser printouts. Smith, because of the sensitive nature of his work, abhorred making hard copies of CURE materials, but he knew he would not be allowed to carry his briefcase into the FBI interrogation room. And he would need these documents if he were to succeed.
His one solace was that the paper was chemically treated so that within six hours the writing would fade untraceably.
In over twenty years of service in CURE, Dr. Harold W. Smith had never left anything to chance. He looked like the "before" segment of a laxative commercial, with his rimless eyeglasses and dry pinched features. His hair, as colorless as a weather-beaten New England fishing shack, had thinned out on top. His eyes matched the gray of his suit as if he had picked them out in the morning with his cufflinks.
He looked like a stuffy bureaucrat. The picture was true as far as it went. But it was also the perfect disguise for what Smith really was: the most powerful official in America.
FBI Agent John Glover mistook Smith for a district supervisor when Smith came down the twelfth-floor corridor of Washington FBI headquarters. His hands didn't even tighten on the grip of his Uzi machine pistol. Smith looked that harmless.
"Excuse me, sir," Glover said when Smith began walking up to him. "This is a restricted floor."
"I know," Smith replied. He flashed his billfold in the man's face. John Glover saw the ID card. It bore the seal of the Central Intelligence Agency. It indicated that the man's name was Smith. Smith's thumb obscured the first name and initial and Glover was about to ask to see the card more clearly when Smith spoke up in a stern voice.
"I'm here to see the prisoner. I assume he has not yet talked."
"No, sir. He's a tough one. And you know the drill. They never talk until the third day. Not without torture."
"We don't torture people in this country," Smith said.
"No, sir. But maybe we should. Because of him a lot of innocent people died."
"I understand your feelings, but I have to try." Inwardly, FBI Agent Glover smiled. Who did this old fart think he was? Even under standard FBI interrogation routines, with round-the-clock questioning and sleep and food deprivation, the worst-trained professional agent usually held out until the third day. For some reason, the third day was the breaking point. They always talked then. But privately Glover wondered if this guy wouldn't go four days. He was tough. Very tough.
"You'll have to leave your briefcase here," Glover said.
"I have all I need with these papers," Smith said, placing the briefcase on a nearby table. Smith had been carrying the papers in the same hand that clutched the briefcase. Just as he had carried his billfold in his other hand as he stepped off the elevator. He was very thorough. In a high-security building like this, a man could get shot for reaching into his pocket the wrong way.
"I'll have to pat you dawn," Glover said.
Smith spread his arms as the FBI agent frisked him. "Okay, go in," Glover said. He pressed a button, causing the door to unlock. Smith stepped in.
Less than a minute later, the FBI interrogation team came out, tight-faced and grumbling.
"What happened?" Glover asked.
"The officious bastard threw us out," he was told by the special agent in charge.
"Can he do that?"
"Some kind of national-security authorization. But I'll bet we can crack it. Come on, men. Let's work the phones."
FBI Agent Glover returned to his position, the Uzi cradled in his arms. He wondered if Smith would give it up before or after the FBI finished pulling strings.
It took nearly four hours. The FBI interrogation team had not returned. Agent Glover had been looking at his watch, making mental bets with himself over how much longer it would take for them to toss that CIA spook out of the building. Four hours seemed a long time, though. Then the door behind him opened.
"Give up?"
"Yes," Smith said, his face grim.
"Tough?"
"More than most. You'd better get a stenographer in here. He's babbling like a child."
"Babbling?" asked Glover. He peered into the room. The terrorist was sitting at one end of a long table. His head was buried in his folded arms. His shoulders shook. At first Glover thought he might be laughing with hilarity at the expense of the gray-haired CIA bureaucrat who thought he could break him. But the muffled sounds coming from deep within him were not laughter. His face came up briefly as he wiped tears from the corners of his dark moist eyes.
"Christ! He's bawling his eyes out. What'd you do to him?"
"I talked to him."
"Talked?"
"It's very effective. Now I must go. My work is done."
"I don't believe this," Agent Glover said slowly.
"Has there been any word on the Lincoln Memorial situation while I was occupied?" Smith asked.
"Not that I-"
Then, through the thick walls of the FBI Building, came the cannonading of explosions. The walls shook. "My God," Smith said. "They failed." And he hurried to the elevator, managing to move quickly without actually breaking into the indignity of a run.
Chapter 7
Remo saw it in the terrorist's shocked eyes. They were both going to die. He grabbed the man by throat and crotch and backpedaled to the open air of the memorial steps. There wouldn't be time to get to all the explosive charges, but if he worked fast enough he could minimize the damage to the building. He only hoped Chiun had heard him in time to get clear.
On the steps, Remo spun in place three times. When he felt the momentum achieve its peak, he let go of the windmilling terrorist. The man shot up into the air. Remo raced back into the colonnade. He had severed the wires leading from the detonator, but that wouldn't matter now. The electricity was already sizzling along the wires. Remo was operating nearly as fast, but he knew it would not be fast enough.
He found a satchel leaning up against a far column. Remo scooped it up and sent it sailing. That was two. And so far no explosion. Would there be time to get to the third satchel? It was too much to hope for.
Remo scooted along the columns. Nothing behind any of them. He raced around the sanctuary. He knew it was not there. Maybe in one of the other rooms. Nothing in either of them. He raced to the side steps. They were clean too.
Where the hell was it?
Then he saw it. And his heart sank.
It was a leather valise. It dangled over the aged head of his mentor and trainer, Chiun. Chiun was holding it over his head triumphantly, so that Remo could see that he had found it.
Remo only had time to yell, "Chiun, get rid of that thing!" before the air filled with a series of explosions. Remo hit the hard floor and rolled into the shelter of Abraham Lincoln's feet, He shielded his face with his forearms.
The first concussive wave struck his eardrums. Remo opened his mouth in a soundless scream to equalize the pressure so his eardrums would not rupture. A second wave rolled over him. He waited for the third one.