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  Smith turned to the console, all thought of the President evaporating from his mind.

  The computer told of a murder in the sleepy town of Mount Olive in North Carolina. A man named Harold Q. Smith, age sixty-two, had been murdered. He was found on the stoop of his home, his head lopped off as if by a guillotine. Police were investigating. The man had no known enemies, and there were no obvious suspects.

  Smith punched up his tactical map of the United States and added the name of Harold Q. Smith to the list of Smith victims, now numbering fourteen, He added the place of death, and the number fourteen appeared within the borders of North Carolina, corresponding to the locale of Mount Olive.

  Smith hit a key and a green line zipped between the locale of the last Harold Smith killing, Oakham, Massachusetts, and Mount Olive. The line was long, straight, and paralleled the east coast. It went through lower New England and New York State, right past Long Island and Rye, New York.

  The killer had bypassed him. Completely.

  Smith wondered if he had made a mistake in calculating the killer's methods. Perhaps he was not traveling by road, as Smith had surmised. Possibly he was not selecting his targets by telephone listings either.

  It should have been a relief. It was not.

  It injected a maddening note of randomness to what Harold Smith had, with his rational mind, perceived as a logical system. If the killer was deviating into another pattern, Smith, in the long run, remained the probable target.

  The agony of waiting could be prolonged indefinitely. Smith groaned inwardly, and settling himself, prepared to attack this new factor with all his rational skill.

  Harold Q. Smith had heard a knock at his front door.

  He was watching a football game, in which his team was leading by three points in the fourth quarter. He was not happy at being interrupted, and so went to the door grumbling.

  The girl standing on the porch was young and very pretty. Smith had never seen her before, and because Mount Olive was a college town, he automatically assumed she was a student. Maybe she was here to sell him a magazine. Sometimes the students did that for spending money.

  The girl smiled sweetly. and Smith's bad mood went away. She had that kind of smile.

  "Hi! Are you Harold Q. Smith?"

  "That's right, young lady."

  "I have a friend of yours in my van."

  "Friend?"

  "Yes, he'd like to speak with you."

  "Well," said Harold Q. Smith slowly, thinking of his football game, "tell him to come in."

  "Oh, he can't," Ilsa said sadly. "He can't walk, poor thing."

  "Oh," said Harold Q. Smith. "I suppose I have to go to him."

  "Would you?"

  Smith would, and did.

  The blood girl hauled open the side door. Harold Q. Smith stuck his head in before stepping up into the van and saw the most hideous face he had ever seen. Ever.

  The face belonged to a body covered to the neck in blankets. An old man. Very old, with tiny ears and bright black eyes. His body didn't seem to make a normal outline under the rough cloth.

  "Smith!" the man hissed.

  "Do I know you?"

  Then Smith felt the gun in his back. He did not have to turn around to know it was a gun. In fact, he didn't think it would be a good idea to turn around at all.

  "Inside," the blond girl said, her voice no longer sounding of honey and sunshine.

  Smith stepped up. He had to bend over to stand in the cramped interior. It was okay, though, because it made the fall when the girl clubbed him over the head that much shorter.

  "I have waited for this moment, Harold Q. Smith," Konrad Blutsturz intoned. "Forty years, I have waited."

  "I think he's out."

  "Eh?"

  "He can't hear you," said Ilsa. "I guess I knocked him out. Sorry."

  "Bah!" spat Konrad Blutsturz. "It does not matter. He is not the right Smith and I am too weary to kill him. Drag him back to his porch and shoot him there."

  "Can I cut his head off instead?" Ilsa asked, eyeing the curved blade from Blutsturz' blue left arm.

  "They gush when their heads are cut off," Blutsturz warned.

  "I'll stand clear." Ilsa promised.

  "Please yourself," he said, closing his eyes. "Just as long as he is dead."

  "Oh, goody," said Ilsa, grabbing Harold Q. Smith by the heels.

  Ilsa Gans replaced the pay phone in the gas station that, even in winter, smelled of a mix of sweet magnolia blossoms and gas fumes.

  She scooped up the pile of dimes she had used to make her calls. She had started out with forty dollars in change. Now there was only sixty cents. But she had found what she wanted. She couldn't wait to tell her Fuhrer.

  She trotted back to the waiting van and climbed behind the wheel.

  "I found the perfect place," she called back.

  In the dim rear of the van, lying on a fold-down cot, lay Konrad Blutsturz.

  "Where?" he croaked.

  "Folcroft Sanitarium. It's in New York. It took me a zillion calls to find a place, but this one is perfect. The admitting person assured me it's one of the best in the country. They'll accept you right away, and best of all, they'll let me stay with you as your personal nurse. Some of the others would have taken you, but not me. I knew you didn't want us separated."

  "Good, Ilsa," groaned Konrad Blutsturz. His stumps ached, they ached to the bone. With his real hand he pulled the blankets tighter. They were coarse. Army blankets. They itched, and somehow the itch was more maddening than the pain.

  "And you'll never guess what," Ilsa went on in the cheery voice she used when his spirits were low. "The man in charge of Folcroft, his name is Smith. Harold Smith. Isn't that wild?"

  "Smith," said Konrad Blutsturz. And his eyes blazed.

  Chapter 27

  Remo Williams left the headquarters office of the White Aryan League of America and Alabama and rejoined Chiun in the adjoining conference room.

  "What did Emperor Smith say?" the Master of Sinanju asked. Chiun stood before the assembled survivors of the White Aryan League, who squatted on the floor, their hands clasped behind their heads like POW's in a war movie.

  "He's not happy, but if we bring back the nebulizer right away. I don't think he'll fire you."

  Chiun's facial hair trembled.

  "Fire?" he quavered. "Smith said I might be fired? No Master of Sinanju has ever been fired. Never."

  "He didn't say fire, exactly," Remo admitted, "but he's very upset."

  "Then we will recover this device," said Chiun firmly.

  "How?"

  Chiun yanked one of the seated men to his feet. The man came up like a springing jack-in-the-box.

  "This one will tell us," Chiun said.

  Remo looked at the man. He was frightened, but there was a streak of surly arrogance in his meaty, middle-aged face. His thick eyebrows and brush mustache were the same whisk-broom color.

  "What's your name, buddy?" Remo demanded.

  The man squared his shoulders. "Dr. Manfred Beflecken."

  "You say that like it means something."

  "It does. I am one of the finest surgeons in the world."

  "He is the one who created that vile thing," said Chiun.

  "Did you?"

  "I had that privilege. Bionics are my specialty."

  "You created a monster," Remo said.

  "No," said Dr. Manfred Beflecken. "Konrad Blutsturz was already a monster. The war made him so. I made him a better monster."

  "Insane," said Chiun. "This physician is insane. And he is a racist, possibly the worst one of all. I tried your word game on him, Remo. He hates everyone. Even these other racists. He thinks Germans are the master race. Germans! The only thing Germans were ever good for was soldiering-and when was the last time they won a war?"

  "These others are nothing," said Dr. Beflecken. "Mere tools to achieve Herr Fuhrer's ends."

  "The only end I care about is ending that thing's life," Remo said grimly.
"Where can I find him?"

  The doctor shrugged. "Who can say?"

  "You can, and you will," said Remo, grabbing the man by the shoulder. Remo dug his thumb into Dr. Beflecken's beefy shoulder muscles until he felt the hard ball of the man's shoulder joint. Dr. Beflecken's face flushed. He struggled, but Remo's hand squeezed the fight out of him.

  "What you did to Blutsturz I can undo. To him. To you. To anyone," Remo warned. "Last chance."

  "I am a loyal German of the Reich," said Dr. Beflecken.

  Remo pressed. The man's shoulder separated with an audible pop.

  Tears squeezed from Dr. Beflecken's eyes. His right arm dropped lower than his left by a noticeable inch. Remo switched shoulders.

  "There is a cabin," Dr. Beflecken gasped as he felt Remo's thumb seek his other shoulder joint. His knees felt like tires leaking air. "In the Florida Everglades. Near a place called Flamingo. Herr Fuhrer lived there before coming to Fortress Purity. He may go there."

  "Hear that, Little Father?"

  "No," said the Master of Sinanju. "I hear only the voice of my ancestors, accusing me of becoming the first Master of Sinanju to be laid off like a common ditchdigger. "

  "This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't stopped me. I could have taken Bloodsucker or whatever his name is."

  "And you wouldn't have been foolish enough to believe you could take him if your lust to return to Sinanju had not clouded your thinking. How many times have I told you, never assume that just because familiar things fall before your skill, that it will be so with unfamiliar things. Your arrogance could have gotten you killed. And then where would my village be?"

  "In Korea, where it's always been," said Remo. "And where I wish I was right now."

  "You would abandon me in America, Remo? Alone, the only perfect person in a land of fat racists."

  "No, Little Father, I would take you back to Sinanju. With rne. Where we both belong."

  Chiun's parchment visage softened. He turned away so that his pupil could not see his face.

  "We will discuss it later," he said. "After we recover the nebulizer and ensure my continued employment."

  "Fine. Let's go."

  "What about these vermin?" said Chiun, waving a hand at the cowering members of the White Aryan League of America and Alabama. "Should we not dispose of them? Perhaps Emperor Smith would appreciate a few heads to set upon the gates of Fortress Folcroft. Heads are wonderful for warding off enemies. I see some good ones here."

  "We don't have time."

  The Master of Sinanju shrugged, and followed Remo out the door.

  "What about me?" asked Dr. Beflecken, clutching his useless dangling arm.

  "Oh, right." said Remo, stepping back into the room. "You rebuilt Bloodsucker, didn't you?"

  "Blutsturz. Yes."

  "And you could do it again? With someone else?"

  "I am very skilled."

  "Good-bye," said Remo, driving two fingers into the man's eyes. Dr. Manfred Beflecken collapsed into a pile of dead flesh.

  "You were right, Little Father," said Remo. "It's a handy stroke."

  "Remind me to kill you later," Chiun said to the surviving members of the White Aryan League in parting. Moe Stooge had used it often in similar circumstances, and the Master of Sinanju was certain that the great entertainer would not mind his using it.

  Dr. Harold Smith removed the special briefcase from his office locker. He opened it and checked the minicomputer and telephone hookup that would link him to the CURE computers during his planned trip to North Carolina.

  Before he closed the briefcase, he slipped his old automatic into a special recess that would enable him to get it past airport security.

  On his way out of the office, he spoke to his secretary. "I will be away for at least a day, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith told her. "I'm sure you'll be able to handle matters until my return."

  "Of course, Dr. Smith." said Eileen Mikulka, who prided herself on the fact that she could easily run Folcroft's day-to-day operations while her boss was out of town.

  "I will be in touch."

  "Oh, Dr. Smith?" Smith turned.

  "Yes?"

  "They're admitting that new patient now. The one who survived a botched surgical procedure. I thought you might like to welcome him, as usual."

  "Thank you for telling me," said Dr. Smith. "What is his name?"

  Mrs. Mikulka consulted a desk log. "A Mr. Conrad."

  "Fine, I will do that."

  Smith took the elevator to the main lobby, where he saw the new patient being wheeled through the big glass doors by two burly attendants. A young blond girl in a white nurse's uniform hovered over the man on the gurney, concern pricking her soft features.

  Smith strode toward them.

  "Hi! I'm Ilsa," the blond nurse said. She had the chipper personality of a health-care worker fresh to the field.

  "Welcome to Folcroft Sanitarium," Smith said, briefly shaking her hand. "I'm chief administrator of this facility."

  "Oh! Dr. Smith."

  "That's right."

  "I've heard of you," Ilsa said brightly. "Allow me to present Mr. Conrad."

  The man on the gurney stared up with glazed black eyes, his face as dry and bloodless as if it were carved from shell. The dry lips were drawn back over brownish gums in a deathlike rictus.

  Smith offered a tentative hand, but quickly shoved it into a pocket when he realized the man had no legs. The covering sheet lay flat where the man's legs should have been. Smith couldn't be certain the man wasn't also missing his arms. Better not to find out the uncomfortable way.

  Ilsa bent over the patient. "This is Dr. Smith. I told you about him. Dr. Harold Smith."

  Suddenly the black eyes brightened with life. "Smith," he hissed.

  Dr. Smith recoiled at the violence with which the dry husk of a man spoke his name. The old head trembled, lifting off the pillow. One arm, strong, muscular, but horribly scarred, flailed out from under the sheet. The patient's gnarled hand clawed the air. It seemed to claw at him.

  "Calm down," soothed Ilsa. "It's all right. I'm here."

  "Smith," the man hissed again. "Smith!"

  "He sometimes gets this way," Ilsa told Smith as she gently forced Konrad Blytsturz' agitated head back onto the fluffy pillow.

  "Er, yes," said Dr. Smith. "Let me assure you he'll get the best of care at Folcroft."

  Dr. Harold Smith hurriedly escaped out the door, even as the poor patient kept repeating his name over and over again. Smith shuddered, even though he had seen worse cases come through the Folcroft gates. Patients like Mr. Conrad were often bitterly mad at the world. Even so, the utter venom that seemed to coat the way he spoke Smith's name was disturbing. It was almost las if the man knew him. And hated him.

  But that, of course, was impossible, thought Harold W. Smith. He had never seen Mr. Conrad before. Smith drove off the Folcroft grounds wondering what terrible tragedy had reduced the man to his present pitiful state.

  Mrs. Harold W. Smith stood before the floor-length mirror in the bedroom of her modest Tudor-style home, examining herself critically.

  "Frumpy," she decided aloud.

  The other two dresses made her look the same. She had just purchased them, and while they had seemed to flatter her full figure in the store dressing-room mirrors with the perky salesgirl insisting they all made her look "fashionable," in the privacy of her home she saw herself as she had always been-a frump.

  There was no help for it. Even as a teenager, she had possessed only a certain dowdy charm. Harold had married her anyway. And as the years passed by, blurring the modeling of her face, etching motherly wrinkles about her eyes, and filling out a body that, even at twenty-five, belonged to a middle-aged woman, Harold Smith had continued to love her.

  True, Harold had peculiar attitudes about matrimonial love. He had never surprised her with perfume or flowers or new clothes, even in the early years of their life together-because he considered any purchase that didn't come with a five-year, f
ully refundable guarantee frivolous. The most romantic gift Harold Smith had ever given her was in 1974, when he had purchased a riding lawn mower for her use. The neighborhood boy had raised his rates ten cents an hour and, because Harold's hours were impossible and there was no other boy to do the work, Harold Smith had splurged on the tractor mower because he didn't want her to tire herself with the chore.

  Mrs. Smith had accepted it all, down through the years. She told herself that when the time came for Harold to retire, she would finally have him all to herself. But age sixty-five came and went for Harold W. Smith, and there was no talk of retiring from Folcroft. "I'm too important," he had said the one time she had broached the subject. The years had worn down his slight frame, and she had been worried about him. "Folcroft couldn't get along without me."

  It was after that brief conversation that Mrs. Smith had begun to suspect that her husband did not run a health sanitarium. Not really. Certainly he ran it, but even more certainly his job at Folcroft was a blind for something less mundane. Harold's intelligence background suggested it. That and the fact that he seemed to age faster after his early retirement from the CIA than before it.

  Mrs. Smith clicked into the next bedroom, unsteady on her new high heels. She was not used to high heels, had never worn them. But they were back in style and maybe they would make her seem taller, her legs slimmer, and her carriage appear less . . . frumpy.

  Vickie's bedroom was the same as when she had left it to go offon her own. It was hard to believe that her only daughter was now a grown woman. Where had the years gone?

  On the vanity Vickie's cosmetics sat where they always sat, waiting for the holiday visits, as she always explained it to Harold whenever he suggested converting the bedroom into a den. In truth, she had kept the room as a shrine to the young girl she thought had grown up much too fast.

  Sitting at the vanity, Mrs. Smith went through the trays of cosmetics. She never used makeup. Harold had always disapproved of it. She sometimes wondered if he really objected to makeup or to the high prices for the stuff. Thinking back to the lawn mower, she decided it was the cost.

  She gave up on using the makeup and applied just a touch of perfume behind each ear. That would get his attention.

  Satisfied, Mrs. Smith called a taxi.