"None that I'd be privy to." The agent winced. "The President's detail was shot. Lot of other people, too. Doctors, nurses. No witnesses. They got away scot free."
Remo's brow was dark. "What about all those ditzes out front with cameras?"
"Kidnappers used a back exit. No press there."
"Security cameras?"
"I don't know." The agent was pleading by now. He had given up everything he knew. Wordlessly, Remo tapped a single finger dead center in the man's forehead. The Secret Service agent stiffened as if in shock, then the air slipped from him and he slumped forward. Remo dumped the unconscious agent onto one of the empty beds.
"So much for the simple assignment," he groused as he flung a blanket over the man.
"Do not complain to me," the Master of Sinanju warned, folding his arms. "You were never called Chinese in a major film franchise. Everything else pales in comparison."
"I thought we weren't talking about that," Remo said, only half listening. He was trying to think what their next move should be. "And this is much worse. Smith said the old President remembered all about us."
"Good," Chiun retorted with a satisfied nod. "Let the aged one sing our praises from the rooftops of the nation he once led. Maybe I will finally get some proper recognition."
"Smitty'd love that," Remo grumbled. "Speaking of which, I'd better call him. He's gonna want to know about this if he hasn't already heard."
Cruel face etched in lines of deep concern, Remo reached for the room phone.
HAROLD SMITH HAD LEARNED Of the former President's kidnapping an hour earlier. Although the news had not yet filtered out to the mainstream press, it was spreading like wildfire through official government channels. It was only a matter of time before the public learned of the abduction.
A blue bottle of antacid sat on Smith's desktop. He had opened the bottle three times in the past sixty minutes. Given the nature of the crisis, there was no sense putting it away.
Each new report Smith read added to the growing tidal wave of nausea welling up within him. Someone possessed with knowledge of CURE was in the hands of an unknown force.
The kidnappers were vicious and ruthless. They had killed more than twenty people in their murderous route from the hospital subbasement parking area to the ex-President's eighth-floor room.
Their identity was still a mystery.
Smith's mind reeled as he considered the possible suspects. As a result of this President's very public convictions, the list of potential enemies was vast.
The massive mainframes hidden behind a secret wall in the sanitarium's basement had been working overtime since the start of the crisis. Dubbed the Folcroft Four by Smith in a rare display of creativity, the computers had compiled a detailed list of the most likely suspects.
Smith had always found organization to be the key to every successful operation. To this end, he had initiated a program that divided the huge list into two separate sections: homegrown threats and those from abroad.
It was a coin toss to decide which category of potential culprits he should begin sifting through first. In the end, Smith decided to go with those at home, for the simple fact that the former President was kidnapped while on American soil. He would expand the search as circumstances dictated.
Alone in his drab office, Smith lowered his hands to the special capacitor keyboard buried beneath the lip of his gleaming black desk. Casting a final, longing glance at his antacid bottle, he began to sift through page after electronic page of likely suspects. He had barely gone over a dozen names when the familiar jangle of the blue contact phone cut through the tomblike silence of his office.
Behind his desk, Smith froze.
The ex-President had called on that very phone the night before. It was possible that this was him once more. This time in the hands of an unknown enemy.
Realizing that the ringing phone might be sounding the death knell of both himself and the organization he led, Harold W. Smith wrapped an arthritic hand around the receiver: With great deliberateness, he answered it. Blood pounded in his ear.
"Yes," he said, his voice totally devoid of any inflection.
"The President's been kidnapped."
At the sound of Remo's voice, Smith released a mouthful of bile-scented air. He hadn't even realized he had been holding his breath.
"I have heard," Smith said. He spoke in precise, measured tones. "You and your associate should return to home base at once."
Remo sounded puzzled. "My associate? You mean Chiun?"
"Please, no names!" Smith insisted sharply.
"Cheez, what's wrong with you, Smitty? Somebody spike your Maatox?"
The CURE director's heart did a somersault at the mention of his own name. "I am sorry, sir, you have the wrong number," Smith spluttered, lamely covering. Fumbling, he quickly hung up the phone.
It rang within three seconds. Smith did his best to ignore it.
Remo obviously didn't appreciate the gravity of this situation. If the former President had given away even a small bit of information to his captors-Folcroft, Sinanju, Smith-the organization could already be compromised. Right now, maintaining simple security protocols was more important than ever.
As the phone continued to squawk unanswered at his elbow, Smith attempted to concentrate on his work. Remo's persistence was greater than he'd expected. After a full five minutes of solid ringing, the blue phone finally fell silent. Smith breathed a sigh of quiet relief.
Head swimming with concerns, he threw himself back into his work. Smith had only time to scan a dozen or so names of potential kidnappers when there came a timid knock at his closed office door.
He lifted his hands from the keyboard. The amber keys faded to black. The special computer monitor beneath the surface of the desk was angled so that only the person seated behind it could see it. Confident that everything was in order, he lifted his head to the door.
"Come in."
Eileen Mikulka, Smith's secretary for the past twenty years, sheepishly rapped a single knuckle against the heavy door even as she pushed it open.
"I'm so sorry, Dr. Smith," the matronly woman apologized. "I know how you hate to be disturbed while you're working."
"What is it?" Smith asked, hurrying her along. Her lopsided smile was uncertain.
"Your friend Mr. Remo is on the phone," she explained. "He says that the fate of the nation is in your hands." She gave a little apologetic shrug.
By colossal effort, Smith fought down any hint of a reaction. "Put him through," he said levelly. Nodding, Mrs. Mikulka backed from the room. When the primary Folcroft line sounded, Smith depressed the blinking light and picked up the phone. "Use the other line," he ordered. He promptly hung up the phone.
This time when the blue contact phone rang, Smith answered it.
"You are behaving recklessly," the CURE director accused.
"Relax," Remo replied. "Your secretary's clueless. And you're acting paranoid."
Smith leaned an elbow against his onyx desk, cradling his patrician nose between thumb and forefinger. His rimless glasses bit into the bridge. "If we must have this conversation, we will make it brief," he said wearily.
"Fine with me. Why do you want me and-" Remo caught himself "-my associate to come back there?"
"It would be best during the current situation."
"Don't you want us to try to find you-know-who?"
"Possibly," Smith suggested. "Eventually. But as I understand it, there are no leads at present. It would be unwise for you to stay in the vicinity, given the knowledge that he has recently displayed."
"You think he might finger me to someone?"
"It is a possibility."
"No biggie," Remo said. "We can take care of anyone who comes our way."
"We do not know that," Smith replied. "This is a deadly serious situation, and we are dealing with a faceless enemy."