But four had recently become five.
When Mark Howard had come aboard at the urging of the new President, Smith had been wary. After all, there had been other men through the years who had learned of CURE's existence, and every one had tried to use the agency for his own nefarious ends. The only individual with integrity to become part of the internal structure of the organization had been an old assistant of Smith's. But Ruby Gonzalez had perished under mysterious circumstances years ago.
Given their track record, Smith was content to leave things well enough alone.
But the President was adamant.
And so, Mark Howard had joined the team.
At first Smith had been reluctant to include Mark in the loop. As head of CURE, Harold Smith was used to working alone. But as the weeks bled into months he had begun to cede more responsibilities to CURE's assistant director.
At first Howard had been a pleasant surprise. He was smart, capable and learned quickly. But as time went on and Smith had entrusted more and greater duties to the young man, the CURE director's surprise turned to quiet amazement.
Howard was proving to be a godsend. The young man's instincts were uncanny. He seemed to know where CURE's energies should be directed with unfailing accuracy.
The one time that Smith had pressed him on the matter, Mark had uncomfortably admitted to having some special instinctive insight. An ability to look at widely divergent facts and assemble them into a complete picture.
The young man seemed so uneasy with the topic that Smith had not mentioned it again. Besides, results were all that really mattered. And as an ally in the war to keep America safe, Mark Howard was clearly an asset and a prodigy.
Of course, Harold Smith would never admit this to his new assistant. After all, if Howard knew how well he was working out here at Folcroft he might ask for a raise.
Smith was reviewing the latest news articles on the B. O. Anson matter when there came a sharp rap at his door.
He checked his Timex-9:00 a.m. on the dot. Another box Smith could check in his assistant's plus column. The young man was punctual.
"Come in," he called.
The wide, youthful face that appeared through the opening door seemed unusually fatigued this morning.
"Good morning, Dr. Smith," Mark said, shutting the door.
Smith's face took on a hint of sober concern as the young man crossed the office and slipped into the hard wooden chair that sat before the CURE director's big desk. "Are you feeling well?" Smith asked.
"Yes, I'm fine," Mark nodded. "Just a little tired. My sleep's been off the past couple of weeks."
Smith frowned. "I did inform you that you should limit use of medications that induce drowsiness, did I not? That would include all sleep aids."
"Don't worry, Dr. Smith," Mark promised. "I've just been a little out of whack is all."
Smith accepted his assistant's assurance with a crisp nod. He set his arthritic hands to his desk, fingers intertwined. "Report," he said.
There were two daily meetings, one in the morning, one at night. Smith started off every one the same way. That one word was usually Mark's cue to rattle off any illegal business he had determined should be of interest to CURE. But thanks to Remo, the focus of Mark's work had shifted for the past four days.
"The fallout's getting lighter," Howard began. "No hint yet that anyone saw Remo at the golf club. At least no one's come forward. As far as Anson's death is concerned, it's now being chalked up to a freak accident. At least that's the latest theory making the rounds."
"So I have seen," Smith said with an approving nod.
He had been reading one of the latest news reports when Howard knocked. It was now being said that the former football player's own drive had been so powerful that his ball had struck a tree and ricocheted back into his face.
"The guys he was playing with dispute the accident theory," Mark explained. "They swear he drove it down the fairway. But the ball they say he hit hasn't been found. I assume Remo got it on his way off the course."
"Have you asked him?" Smith asked.
"No," Howard admitted uncomfortably. "But whether or not he took it, it's gone. Without it most of the news outlets are going with the self-inflicted angle. Even so, activists like Linus Feculent and Hal Shittman are saying he was murdered."
"So I have heard," Smith said tartly.
The CURE director knew well of the two infamous ministers. Although religious leaders, the doctrine they preached was that of intolerance, hatred and divisiveness. The death of a polarizing figure like Barrabas Orrin Anson was just up their rhetorical alley.
"I wouldn't worry too much about them," Howard said. "I have a feeling we're safe. The story will circulate for a few days and then die. In the meantime we should make sure Remo doesn't spend too much time wandering around Rye."
Smith nodded. "I agree," he said. "Barring something unexpected, we can put this matter behind us. Next item."
Mark hesitated. "Actually, Dr. Smith, there is something else." He seemed suddenly ill at ease.
"What is it?" Smith asked.
"It's about Remo," Mark said. "I don't think he likes me." He instantly regretted his choice of words. They made him sound like a whining adolescent. "I'm fine with that," he added quickly. "I can see what he's like. But I'm afraid his behavior-particularly in the Anson matter-is at least partially a result of my coming to work here."
A curious frown formed on Smith's thin lips. "Perhaps," he admitted. "Remo is unhappy with change. It could just as easily be restlessness brought on by his current living conditions. After all, he and Master Chiun lost their home relatively recently. In either case I would not be overly concerned if I were you."
"I'm not concerned about me, Dr. Smith," Mark insisted. "I'm worried about CURE. I've seen the evolution of his attitude in the reports you gave me to read. Are you sure it's worth the risk of exposure to keep them on? After all, computers are far more sophisticated now than when you started. We might be able to work from Folcroft exclusively, without the risk of exposure we get every time Remo and Chiun are sent into the field."
Smith considered his assistant's words in thoughtful silence. At long last the older man leaned back in his chair. It creaked gently beneath him. The sunlight that reflected off the orange autumn leaves forged a halo around his thinning grayish-white hair.
"There have been times that I have considered releasing them from their contract," Smith said softly. "In fact, a number of years back both Remo and Chiun left CURE for a brief period. When that happened, I will admit to feeling great relief. But there soon came a crisis for which their services were required." Smith's eyes were unblinking behind his spotless lenses, "The security of this nation was purchased at the expense of my personal comfort. It remains a price that I am more than willing to pay. And the simple fact is there are more instances than I care to remember when those two men alone have prevented this country, perhaps the world, from toppling into the abyss."
It was a rather melodramatic statement coming from the preternaturally taciturn Harold Smith. Sitting in his uncomfortable wooden chair, Mark could not entirely disagree. After all, he had seen some of what the two men could do.
"I just hate the thought that I might be the reason Remo does something stupid," Mark said softly.