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  "No," Smith said. "One's in Venezuela, and the other's in Amsterdam. If you pick up anything from Mrs. Peabody, we'll know where to go from there. And one other thing. Peabody's last word was 'Abraxas.' "

  "A whatzis?"

  "Abraxas. The CIA couldn't get anything out of Mrs. Peabody about it. Keep that in mind. Call me to report at 2100 hours tomorrow."

  "What time is that?" Remo asked.

  "Nine P.M.," Smith said.

  "You'll be at the office at nine o'clock at night?"

  "Of course," Smith said, and hung up.

  ?Chapter Three

  It had been a foolish question. Smith was always at his office at nine in the evening. As the director of Folcroft Sanitarium, he could leave anytime he wanted to, since the executive responsibilities of running a small nursing home were minimal. But as the head of CURE, there were not enough hours in the day. Were it not for the human requirements of food and rest and, once a week, asking his wife if she was happy, Harold Smith might never leave Folcroft at all.

  As it was, there wasn't enough time for CURE's original function of monitoring and, if possible, eradicating legally untouchable crime in America. Since the organization's inception, though, CURE's scope had broadened considerably to include every manner of unsolvable global problem. These days, running CURE was a nightmare of endless vigilance and constant fatigue for the computer wizard who'd left a high-ranking post with the CIA to take on CURE for a United States president with an idea. The president was now long dead, but his idea, CURE, remained. And with each passing day, it grew. Smith sighed. There was no way to do the whole job right.

  At eleven minutes past midnight, he shut down the four massive computers in his inner office, stuffed some last-minute printouts into his attaché case, and drove home.

  It was a quiet, starry night in early spring, and in front of the Smiths' tidy frame house his wife's crocuses and daffodils had begun to sprout. He never noticed them. For Harold Smith, night was no more than a testament to the day's failure. Spring meant only that another season had passed, another year in which all of CURE's necessary work was not completed.

  His wife had left food for him on the table: something cold and boiled and covered with tomato soup, Mrs. Smith's favorite sauce. Harold never complained. In the years before his wife discovered canned tomato soup, the meals, being visible, were even harder to face. Now, buried beneath the innocuous red smear, Mrs. Smith's meals at least resembled food of some kind, and since Harold was never one to be particular about the details of his personal life, he ate it.

  The knock came just as Smith was finishing up his wife's cabbage-or-lentil tomato surprise, the green and white striped printouts spread on the table around his plate. He was already beginning to nod with sleep. The sharp rap at the kitchen door startled him alert.

  The man at the door was a couple of inches above five feet tall and wore his hair parted in the middle and slicked down like two black patent leather squares on either side of his head.

  "Dr. Smith?"

  "Yes?"

  "Dr. Harold W. Smith?"

  "I told you, yes. What do you want at this hour?" He looked at his watch. It was 1:12 A.M. Smith stood blocking the doorway. If the man had a gun, Smith figured he at least had a chance of slamming the door before the man could draw and fire. But the little man didn't seem dangerous, and when he smiled, his face seemed to show something like relief.

  "A thousand apologies, Dr. Smith. It has taken me some time to find you. I followed you from the sanitarium—"

  "I beg your pardon?" Smith said, the annoyance in his voice making it sound even more lemony than usual. "You did what?"

  "I followed you. Again, my apologies. There was no other way. I had to see you alone. The guard at Folcroft would not let me in."

  "He has instructions," Smith said tersely.

  "And so, I waited for..." His eyes strained to see past Smith into the house. "You are alone?"

  "As alone as I need to be. State your business."

  "Oh. Of course." The man was clearly nervous, his hands fluttering. "My name is Michael LePat, sir. I am here to deliver a message of the utmost importance to you— may I come in?"

  Smith stared at him for a moment. He could see by the fit of the man's suit jacket that he wasn't carrying a weapon. "I suppose so," he said. "For a moment."

  "Thank you." LePat's hands fluttered gratefully as he slid into the opening Smith had made for him. "This will only take a moment, I assure you. But it is a matter of indescribable importance, in which your participation is crucial."

  "Do you think you could be more specific?" Smith asked drily.

  "I will try," LePat said, "although I cannot give you all of the particulars. Suffice it to say that the individual I represent is a person of immense wealth who seeks to use his fortune in a quest for the highest possible goal."

  "Which is?"

  The little man swallowed. "The betterment of mankind, Dr. Smith. My employer has devised a project that will forever eradicate war and hunger and dissatisfaction from the face of the earth."

  "I see," Smith said. "Really, I think it's a little late in the day to be collecting contributions."

  "Oh, no. My employer has more than enough funds for this project. What I have been sent to ask you is your personal participation in it. May I add that you will be in illustrious company," LePat said, smiling greasily. "My employer has sought out only the top intellects in the world to take part."

  "Thank you, but I really haven't got the time for this— whatever it is. Please convey my regrets to your employer." He eased the little man toward the door.

  "May I leave a card with you, Dr. Smith? In case you change your mind?"

  "I won't change my mind."

  "Nevertheless..." He drew a business card from his vest. On it was scrawled a telephone number. LePat's sweating palms smeared the ink. "That's 555-8000," he said. "It's a local number. Just call it if you decide to participate in the project. Rest assured that nothing harmful or distasteful will come to you."

  "I understand," Smith said, pushing the man out the door.

  "You'll receive further instructions over the telephone."

  "Indeed. Good night." He pressed against the door until the lock snapped in place, then threw the card in the wastepaper basket.

  At 7:43 A.M. Smith was back at the Folcroft computer console, listening to the soft hum of the powerful machines. If he'd had to, he probably would have admitted that he felt more comfortable here than in his own bed. The Folcroft Four, as he secretly addressed the great electronic brains, were a source of the most sublime sort of security to the fastidious Dr. Smith.

  They never stumbled. They were virtually incapable of error. Smith had designed the astonishingly complex circuitry of the Folcroft Four himself, using data collected from the banks of the most modern and effective computers in the world, and programmed them with the intricate mathematical permutations that only a mind as gifted and disciplined as Smith's could have devised.

  For Harold Smith, the Folcroft Four were not just computers. They were more than storehouses of facts accessible to anybody who knew how to push the buttons. The beauty of the Four was that they were secret. CURE's information banks, in addition to being the most complete in the world, were utterly unknown outside the walls of Smith's office. They contained so much knowledge that if all the facts programmed into their software were printed out on one sheet of paper, it would take a man more than five thousand years just to read it.

  And it was all his. His alone. All the knowledge of all the ages of man lay encoded in those four machines, and Harold Smith alone possessed the key to it.

  The thought was awesome.

  "GOOD MORNING," he keyed in crisply, as he did every morning, and waited for the megaliths to return the greeting.

  The Four hummed and buzzed and bleeped, and then the screen changed color from dark green to steel gray, preparing to transmit.

  "DOCTOR SMITH. CALL 555-8000."


  He gasped. It was the same number LePat had given him the night before.

  "GOOD MORNING," he typed again.

  "DOCTOR SMITH. CALL 555-8000," repeated the message.

  He altered the mode. "CODE 041265124. TRANSMIT."

  "DOCTOR SMITH. CALL 555-8000."

  He was shaking. The sensation coursing through his body was the closest thing to rage he had ever felt. He took the machines back to their earliest, simplest memories.

  "CODE 0641. GIVE 100 REAL NUMBERS IN BASE 10."

  They clicked and whined. With the tack-tack of paper processing, a sheet of printout paper spilled out onto Smith's desk.

  "DOCTOR SMITH. CALL 555-8000. DOCTOR SMITH. CALL 555-8000. DOCTOR..."

  Smith turned off the console. His palms were clammy. Someone had done the impossible. That greasy little man in his kitchen, or whoever he worked for, had invaded the absolute privacy of the Folcroft computers.

  A shot of real fear pumped through his blood. If someone had tapped into the computers, then CURE was compromised. Totally. Anyone with access to the CURE banks would know the most secret workings of the U.S. government, including the illegal existence of CURE itself.

  It was the end. That was the arrangement, made long ago with the first president who had found the need for an organization like CURE. It had to be secret, or it couldn't be permitted to exist.

  And neither could Smith.

  In the basement of Folcroft Sanitarium was a coffin. Inside the coffin were two cyanide capsules. They were for him. The computers themselves had been programmed with two sets of instructions to self-destruct. The first could be activated by the president's voice, in the event of Smith's death. The second was a series of codes to be operated by Smith alone, should the existence of CURE become known. Within seconds, fire generated inside the computers themselves would burn everything in the asbestos-lined room to cinders. No other part of the sanitarium would be touched, but Smith's office and everything in it would be utterly destroyed. That was the moment when Smith would walk down the basement stairs and close the door behind him.

  "All right," he said softly. The time had come.

  His attorney possessed a sealed letter to Smith's wife containing what little explanation— and love— he could offer his family. After more than thirty years of marriage, he would have felt like a cheat saying good-bye to Irma over the telephone, anyway. His daughter was grown; she could take care of herself. Remo and Chiun would find what peace they could. There was nothing left to do now but set in motion the code series that would blow CURE out of existence.

  He pressed the numbers encoding the destruct orders and waited for the series to be verified on the screen. It would be the final transmission of the Folcroft Four.

  Smith waited for the machines to begin, drinking in their mechanical noises as if they were a lover's words. The screen changed color. And on it appeared: "DOCTOR SMITH. CALL 555-8000."

  He stared at it in disbelief. Every single function of the computers, including the self-destruct mechanism, had been overridden by one directive from outside.

  Clenching his teeth, he dialed the number.

  "This is a recording," the tiny computer voice on the other end of the line said.

  "Oh, for God's sake..."

  "Thank you for your interest in this worthwhile project. Your participation will help to serve the highest ends of humanity. Be assured that nothing harmful or distasteful to you will occur as a result of your willingness to further the future of mankind."

  "Do get on with it," Smith muttered. He had already been through the sales pitch.

  "Listen carefully, Dr. Smith."

  He blinked, staring at the receiver.

  "Are you listening?"

  "Y-yes," he murmured.

  "You are to go directly to Sandley Airport, twelve miles due southwest from your present location. A charter plane bearing the registration TL-516 will take you to a destination where you will receive further instructions. Please note this information, as your call will not be accepted a second time. That is Sandley Airport, twelve miles due southwest."

  Smith jotted down the information.

  "By car, your traveling time should be approximately 14.6 minutes. The timetable for your journey has been activated by this telephone call. In exactly eighteen minutes, the plane bearing the registration number TL-516 will be airborne. If you are not present on the craft at that time, the functions of your computer will not be restored. Also, you are strongly advised not to reveal your agreement to participate in this project, as we cannot be responsible for any harm that may come to those not specifically invited. We hope we make ourselves perfectly clear, Dr. Smith."

  There was a short pause, followed by a beep. "You have seventeen minutes. Have a pleasant trip." The line went dead.

  He clicked the cradle buttons. There was nothing, not even a dial tone. He pressed the intercom connecting him with his secretary. It, too, was dead.

  "Mrs. Mikulka, are your phones working?" he called from the doorway.

  "No, sir," came the unruffled reply. "All of the lines have been dead since I arrived."

  "But I made a call."

  "Yes, sir. Quite peculiar. Shall I walk to a pay phone and call the telephone company?"

  He checked his watch. Sixteen minutes left.

  "Sir?"

  "Er... whatever you think," he said absently.

  Well, he thought, he didn't have much choice in the matter now. If he were killed, the president's voice could still activate the self-destruct mechanism. That was on a separate circuit. But before he died, he would find out who had broken into the Folcroft computer banks— and how.

  One other thing tugged at the back of his mind. The recording on the phone— so accurate, so organized— had said, quite clearly, that if he wasn't on the plane in time, his computer would not regain function. Computer, in the singular. It may have been a simple error, but Smith doubted that whoever was behind this scheme made simple errors. What was more likely was that the organizing force was not fully aware of the Folcroft Four.

  A small ray of hope sprang up in him. Memorizing the instructions he had written down, he stuffed the note into an envelope and sealed it.

  "This is for a person named Remo," he said, handing it to Mrs. Mikulka on his way out.

  "How do I reach him, Dr. Smith?"

  "He'll reach you."

  "How will I know him?"

  "You'll know him." Smith said.

  ?Chapter Four

  TL-516 was a forty-year-old DC-3 piloted by a man who appeared to have a considerable drinking problem. Smith, sitting ramrod straight in the copilot's seat with his attaché case clutched over his lap, mentioned it as civilly as possible as the pilot slogged down two inches from a fifth of Jack Daniels.

  "Don't worry about nothin'," the pilot said. He exhaled a breath that smelled as if it could launch the Columbia. "Drinking's not my problem."

  "No?" Smith asked archly.

  "Nope. Not drinking's the problem. Once I quit, I start getting the shakes. Anything can happen then. Nosedive, fly into a mountain, you name it."

  "I see," Smith said, feeling faint.

  "Long as I got some fuel in the old tank, though, we're fine." He patted his stomach and took another swig.

  Smith eyed the level of the bottle's contents. At the rate the pilot was consuming it, emptiness was imminent and the shakes inevitable.

  "How far are we going?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

  "Near Miami," the pilot said proudly.

  "Oh." It was almost a sob.

  "Got another," the old man said with a wink. He reached under his seat and hoisted a second bottle aloft.

  Smith permitted himself to exhale.

  "Want a blast?"

  "Er... a what?"

  "A blast," the pilot said, louder.

  "No, thank you."

  "Do you good. From the looks of you, something's got you wound up tighter'n a popcorn fart. Why, when you—"

&nb
sp; "Thank you for your concern," Smith said, cutting him off. "Do you know who I'm meeting?"

  "Lear jet," the pilot said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "A Lear jet," the pilot shouted, annoyed. "Old turkey can't hear nothing."

  Smith harumphed. "I meant, do you know the person I'm meeting," Smith explained.

  "Why? Don't you know who you're going to see?"

  "No."

  "Well, then, why should I?"

  "Who authorized you to make this flight?" Smith asked testily.

  "Telephone."

  Smith steeled himself. "Was there by any chance a person talking to you on the telephone?"

  " 'Course there was. What do you think, phones talk by themselves? It was the base operator down at the airport."

  Smith continued doggedly. "And who called him?"

  "How the hell do I know?" He poured the equivalent of four or five doubles down his throat, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "Some woman. Got piles of money, I guess."

  "A woman?"

  "Can't hear nothing, can you?" the pilot screeched.

  The Lear jet was waiting at the end of the landing strip. The place seemed oddly deserted for a good-sized airport.

  "Home of the wackos," the pilot said cryptically as he touched down with a bone-shattering thud.

  "I'm sure you'd know," Smith said.

  The passenger door of the sleek little jet was open. Inside, in the captain's seat, sat a strikingly beautiful woman with a fragrant mane of long brown-gold hair.

  "Welcome, Dr. Smith," she said. Her voice was as rich as velvet.

  "The woman," Smith said quietly, remembering what the drunken pilot had said. "So you're behind this."

  "Not exactly," she said with a faint Mediterranean accent. "My name is Circe." She turned to face him. The long scar on her face came as a shock.

  "I recommend that you get used to my disfigurement," she said. "You'll be seeing quite a bit of me."

  "I'd like to know where you're taking me."

  "To Greater Abaco Island, in the Bahamas chain," she said. "A small white population, made up mostly of transient boaters. Sun, surf, and solitude."