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  Then it sank into the governor's mind.

  "You're here to assassinate me."

  "No," Remo corrected. "I'm here to execute you. Kennedy was assassinated. Gandhi was assassinated. You, you're a slimy crook who opened your state up to the scum of the earth. You take money so the cocaine kings can sell their junk on the streets you're supposed to protect. Nope. You get executed."

  "I have money," the governor said quickly.

  "Take it with you," Remo said coldly, reaching under the governor's blue jawline. He pressed with his thumb and forefinger and the governors mouth locked in the open position.

  "The thing is," Remo said, lifting the governor out of his chair by the throat, "I've never done a governor. Judges, yeah. Foreign heads of state, from time to time. I think I did an assemblyman once for arson. Never a governor."

  Remo looked around the room.

  "You don't have a microwave around here, do you?"

  The governor shook his head frantically. An "uh-duh" sound came out of his open mouth. Remo squeezed tighter and the sound ceased.

  "Just as well," Remo said absently. "I hear they don't work unless the door is closed. Even if your head fitted inside, it wouldn't cook."

  The governor tried to pull away. Remo transferred his hand to the back of the man's neck. With the other, he pulled the balloons from the governor's frozen grasp. They floated to the ceiling as they toured the room.

  "It's too bad there isn't an electric chair in a closet somewhere," Remo said. "I think that would be appropriate, don't you? No answer. I guess you agree. Now, let's see. What are some of the popular methods of capital punishment? Hanging? No. Lethal injection? You'd need a syringe. Besides, I hate needles. Gas is out. This office doesn't look airtight. In fact," Remo added, noticing the windows for the first time, "it's kind of stuffy in here. What say we get some fresh air? Might help us think."

  The governor's feet made tiny steps as Remo led him to one of the windows. Down below, traffic flowed noisily. Remo unlatched the window and shoved up the sash. A breath of lung-clogging humid air wafted in.

  "Smells bracing, doesn't it?" Remo asked brightly. "Here, you look kinda pale. Suck down a good whiff."

  Remo forced the governor's head out through the window. He rested the man's bobbing Adam's apple on the casement sill.

  Holding it there, Remo continued speaking in a thoughtful voice. "Let's see. Firing squads are passe. I don't carry a gun, anyway. Or a knife. I think we're running out of options. Maybe you have an idea?"

  The governor tried to shake his head. Remo felt the muscular spasms through his sensitive fingers.

  "What's that?" Remo asked. "A guillotine? Now, where are we going to get a guillotine? What's that you say? Improvise? With what?" Remo leaned closer.

  "I can't hear you," Remo said. "Must be all this traffic." And Remo slammed the window shut so fast the glass cracked into an icy spiderweb, holding the governor in place.

  Whistling, Remo retrieved the balloons from the ceiling and positioned them in front of his face as the governor's feet jerked and twitched. The pulpy sound of something heavy hitting the sidewalk several stories below was lost in the slam of the door as Remo left.

  The governor's secretary looked up quizzically as Remo emerged, his face masked by a cluster of balloons.

  "Is something wrong?" she asked.

  "He vetoed the balloons," Remo said sadly. "Said he didn't like the color."

  "Which color?"

  "All of them. He wants black balloons next time."

  "Oh, my God, am I in trouble?" She started for the door. Remo stopped her with his voice.

  "I wouldn't go in there just now. I started singing and he lost his head. Between you and me, I think his marriage is on the rocks."

  "Oh," the secretary said, returning to her seat.

  Remo kept the balloons before his face all the way down to the lobby and past the guard.

  "Wouldn't see you, huh?" the guard said smugly.

  "He's not seeing anyone right now," Remo said solemnly.

  Out on the sidewalk, Remo walked briskly up the street. He noticed that people were staring at him. Or rather, at his balloons. He ducked down a side street and almost stepped on the late Florida governor's head as it lay on the sidewalk. Remo looked at the dripping red stain oozing down from the governor's closed office window.

  He looked around. There was no one in sight, so he knelt down and tied the balloon strings to the governor's hair. Returning to his feet, he let go.

  Remo waved good-bye to the governor's head as it bobbed up past the State House, where a muggy breeze caught it, carrying it from sight.

  As he walked away, Remo stripped off his uniform jacket, exposing a tight black T-shirt. He stuffed the jacket in a dumpster after rending the nametag stitching to shreds, and wondered what the National Enquirer would say about this one.

  Then he went looking for a taxi. There were a lot of them in the streets, but every one was occupied. Remo kept walking. He turned a corner and was surprised to see a knot of people in front of a window. They looked anxious.

  Curious, Remo drifted up to the crowd. He read the sign over the window: "PRUDENT BROKERAGE." The storefront contained a small electric ticker tape.

  "What's going on?" Remo asked of no one in particular. "Somebody famous die?"

  A man in a gray flannel suit called back without turning around, "The stock market is crashing. Again." He had a frog in his throat.

  "Really?" Remo said. "Oh, well, it's not my problem." He went in search of a cab.

  Chapter 3

  Dr. Harold W. Smith wore his face like a wax mask.

  He sat behind an oak desk, his face shiny with a thin film of perspiration. A tiny bead formed at the tip of his nose and clung there, held by static tension. Smith didn't notice it. His tired gray eyes were boring through rimless glasses at the computer terminal on his desk.

  A green cursor raced across the screen, spewing strings of data. Sell orders being cabled to the New York Stock Exchange from all points of the globe.

  They had been coming all morning, in waves like invisible missiles. Unlike missiles, they struck without sound or flash or concussion. Yet each hit wounded America as deeply as if they were rockets cratering the New York streets. Every strike landed in the vicinity of Wall Street.

  But the damage would spread in ripples unless something happened to reverse it.

  Smith tapped a key, and got an alphanumeric readout of the current Standard es. They were not good. He tapped the key again and watched the cable orders. If anything, they were intensifying. The Dow had plunged over three hundred points since the opening bell. Trading had been halted once. It was now nearly noon-only two hours later.

  Smith knew it would be only a matter of time. As the head of CURE, he could do nothing to affect the situation without presidential authorization. And he could not ask for that authorization until it was almost too late.

  Smith leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt tired. The droplet of perspiration trickled down the notch under his nose.

  The intercom buzzer sounded. Without opening his eyes, Smith keyed it and spoke.

  "Yes, Mrs. Mikulka?"

  "Dr. Smith. A call for you on line two," said Eileen Mikulka, who knew nothing of CURE. She was Smith's secretary in his position as head of Folcroft Sanitarium, a private hospital. Folcroft was the cover for CURE.

  "Who is it?" Smith asked. His voice was strained. Ordinarily it carried a lemony New England tang; today it was as dry as a crisp graham cracker.

  "A Mr. Winthrop. He's with the law firm of Winthrop and Weymouth."

  The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Smith had no time to deal with Folcroft matters now.

  "Take his number and ask the nature of his business. I'll return his call later."

  "Yes, Dr. Smith."

  Smith allowed his eyes another half-minute of respite, and when they snapped open again, they gleamed.

  The computer screen continued revealing i
ncoming sell cables. They were being transmitted to the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, the San Francisco Stock Exchange, and brokerage houses all over the country. The Toronto Stock Exchange began showing signs of uncertainty. And the Mexico City exchange was inundated.

  It meant that Wall Street was unable to bear the load.

  Smith clutched the padded armrest of his chair. He knew it was inevitable. The global economy was experiencing another meltdown. This one worse than the Crash of '87. Still, he could not act.

  Smith opened the top-right-hand drawer and lifted out a red telephone. It was a standard AT xcept that there was no dial. He set it close to him and reached back into the drawer. It was a reflex, when he was under stress, to reach into that drawer. Some days it was aspirin. Other days, Alka-Seltzer or one of three other varieties of antacid.

  Smith lifted out a tiny canister of foam antacid, returned it with a lemony frown, and lifted a bottle of children's aspirin he'd gotten as a supermarket sample. He hadn't even looked at the label. Now he noticed for the first time the trademark. It was a gold oval surrounding what seemed to be a black gap-toothed mouth with a pendulous uvula. Smith read the brand name. It meant nothing to him.

  He set the aspirin in easy reach beside the red phone. He didn't need it-yet. He was simply too drained to feel anything. But he knew he would need it before the day was over.

  Then it came. The cable traffic intercepts winked off as a warning program kicked in. The computer began beeping.

  Smith's eyes flew open. For the first time, they reflected fear.

  "It's started," he said hoarsely.

  The system, which had surreptitiously logged onto mainframes in brokerage houses and financial institutions all over the nation, was picking up the next wave. The first warnings were coming from the East Coast, where the brokerage computers were reaching hysteresis. Automatic trading programs, set up to sell stocks when they fell below a certain price, were emitting warnings that the Dow prices were approaching those null points.

  Smith reached for the red telephone. He waited as the ringing on the other end began. He felt so very tired.

  "Smith?" a familiar nasal voice asked.

  "Mr. President, you are undoubtedly aware of the situation on Wall Street."

  "From what I understand, it's not just Wall Street. It's the whole world."

  "I cannot affect the global market, but I may be able to arrest the dropping Dow. Before trading is halted again."

  "You, Smith? How?"

  "During the near-crash of '87 I worked out a system to counter the effects of computerized trading, which was approved by your predecessor."

  "Correct me if I'm off base here," the President said, "but didn't they abolish computerized trading last year?"

  "That's the popular belief. In fact, what was done was this: the computerized stock-trading programs were augmented with warning points. If a program was set to sell when a stock price dropped to sixteen and one-eighth per share, for example, the computers would flash a warning at sixteen and three-eighths.

  "Then they would shut down, is that it?"

  "No, Mr. President. They would not shut down. They simply flashed the warning. The sell-off would still kick in at the designated price.

  "That's pointless."

  "No, Mr. President. That's Wall Street."

  "I don't understand. The problem is still there. We just get a warning. Is that it?"

  "Precisely. And the first lag warnings have flashed to my computers."

  "How much time do we have?"

  "None," Smith said flatly. "In the time it has taken me to explain, several of those programs have already executed. If this continues, there will be more stocks being sold than there are buyers for them."

  "Meltdown," the President said in a sick voice. Then, his voice rallying, he added, "You said something about a plan."

  "After 87, I set up a shell corporation called Nostrum, Inc. It exists purely for this eventuality. Using CURE's financial resources, I can begin buying up large blocks of the afflicted stocks. It's a gamble. But the stock market is driven by rumor and trend. If Nostrum's purchases reach Wall Street ears in time, it might affect the panic psychology prevailing down there. Other buyers may jump in and help avert this rout."

  "A rally?"

  "That may be too much to expect. Arresting the decline is my hope."

  "I can see why you had to ask me, Smith, even though CURE has autonomy in most operational tasks. If you fail-"

  "If I fail," Smith said quickly, his eyes flicking to his watch, the stock market will be no worse off. But the United States government will technically own all the depressed stock. I'll be buying it with the CURE operating budget. If that's not enough, I'll be forced to siphon funds from the Social Security Trust Fund. This is your choice. "

  "My God," the President said tightly. "I can't let the market fall apart like this, but if this goes wrong, we will have bankrupted the government on top of everything else."

  "This is why the previous President approved oversight on this decision. You must decide now, Mr. President."

  There was silence over the line. Harold Smith heard the President of the United States' shallow breathing. He said nothing. This was not his decision. He did not wish to influence it in any way.

  "Do it," the chief executive said, and hung up.

  "Thank you, Mr. President," Harold W. Smith told the dead line, and replaced the receiver. It was the decision he had hoped for but dared not ask. His fingers flew to the keyboard. The computer logged off its current feeds, and the words "Nostrum, Inc.," in ragged black letters on a green screen, flashed across the top.

  Smith began transmitting buy orders to the headquarters of Nostrum, Inc., where its employees-none of whom had ever heard of Folcroft Sanitarium, never mind CURE-shook their heads and began buying up blocks of stock in quavering voices. They began with the most troubled stock, the rapidly declining Global Communications Conglomerate.

  South of Rye, New York, nervous stock traders watched their overhead Quotron tubes with sick, shocked eyes. Every few seconds prices dropped another point or two. It was a rout.

  Then, buy orders began coming in on Global Communications.

  "GLB'S going up!" someone shouted above the roar. His voice was not heard. But the Quotron's silence spoke louder than any voice in the pit.

  Global stopped dropping. Then other buy orders began coming in. The price stabilized at fifty-eight and five-eighths, climbed to sixty, and dropped briefly to fifty-eight and five-eighths again.

  Back in Rye, Dr. Smith watched his Quotron window and allowed himself a dryish smile. It was a long way to the closing bell, but it was a start. He ordered Nostrum to buy another block of GLB and to pick up other bargains. He hoped that by day's end they would be bargains. He had spent most of his adult life serving his country. He didn't want to go down in history as the man who single-handedly bankrupted the United States of America.

  Chapter 4

  P. M. Looncraft whispered old money, from the cut of his Savile Row suit to his tasteful Rolex watch. He lounged in the back of his white Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud as it turned the corner of Broad Street onto Wall. As the Rolls slithered past the statue of George Washington, its brass plaque commemorating the spot where, in 1787, he was inaugurated as the fledgling nation's first chief executive, Looncraft's prim mouth curled disdainfully.

  Reaching into a leather cupboard, Looncraft lifted a pocket memo recorder to his long, lantern-jawed face.

  "Memo," he said in a precise adenoidal honk. "When this is over, have that infernal statue taken down and demolished. Perhaps broken into pieces and turned into something useful. Such as a fireplace."

  Almost soundlessly the Rolls whispered to the curb in front of Looncraft Tower.

  "Call for me at seven sharp, Mipps," Looncraft said, alighting from the car. Briskly he strode into the marble lobby, pleased to see the uniformed guards posted by the elevators.

  He nodded to them as one obligingly pressed
the up button and reached in to hit the button marked: "LD&B."

  The elevator was empty as it whisked P. M. Looncraft to the thirty-fourth floor. Two additional guards met him at the glass-walled foyer. They tipped their caps smartly, and Looncraft allowed them a curt nod as he swept past.

  "No problems, I trust," he said smoothly.

  "A few upset customers, sir. That's all."

  "Carry on," P. M. Looncraft returned as he walked past the gold lettered wall that said "Looncraft, Dymstar d, Investment Brokers." He stepped onto the trading floor, where short-sleeved brokers worked their phones, banks of blinking buttons flashing insistently.

  "Get off my back!" one shouted at another. " I don't have to take anything off you!"

  Looncraft strode up to him and laid a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder. He turned, his face angry. His features quickly softened as he recognized his employer's dour face.

  "Oh, sorry, Mr. Looncraft," he muttered. "It's pure pandemonium, sir. The Dow's off three hundred points. It's a bloodbath out there. "

  "Stay the course, young man," Looncraft said soothingly. "Stay the course."

  "I will. Thank you, sir," the broker said, wiping his brow with a striped shirtsleeve.

  Looncraft raised his long arms to call attention to himself, and called encouragement to his soldiers in finance.

  "Take heart," he shouted. "By evening this will be over. Do not let fear rule you. Your jobs are secure. Looncraft, Dymstar d has a bright future, as have you all. We will survive this day."

  The moment his voice fell silent, the brokers burst into heartfelt applause. Then, at a gesture from Looncraft, they returned to their phones, faces tight, fingers nervously testing the elasticity of their identical red suspenders. Not for nothing was P. M. Looncraft hailed as the King of Wall Street.

  Looncraft marched to his office, his back ramrod straight, his long jaw jutting forward with determination, and glanced briefly over the pile of messages on his desk. None were important. He activated his Telerate screen and gave the current market quotes a brief glance. Global was hovering at fifty-eight and five-eighths. It jumped up, and then down, surprising Looncraft, who had expected a precipitous drop by this time. He wondered if he might have come in too early. He did not wish to subject his delicate nerves to the turmoil of a wildly gyrating stock market. It was enough to call for additional guards to be posted at opening, as a hedge against irate investors who might wish to settle their losses with handguns and other piddling weapons.