The Wrong Stuff td-125 Read online

  Mark was still adjusting to life at Folcroft and with CURE. Not an easy transition to make.

  It wasn't even the fact that he was one of a handful of people to be in on the most damning secret in America's history. Actually, his adjustment as far as that was concerned had been fairly easy, all things considered. It was the other disruptions in his life that had been hard.

  Moving from the Maryland apartment he'd lived in for the past five years.

  Breaking off contact with any friends he'd made while working as an analyst for the CIA.

  A work schedule so grueling he was finding it difficult to maintain relationships with his family back in Iowa.

  And the dreams...

  Sitting behind his warped old desk, Mark shook his head. By sheer will he forced this last thought from his mind.

  Actually, there was something that was worse than everything else. Something that had been weighing on his mind ever since that unpleasant meeting with Remo four days ago. The constant security worries.

  It had been worse these past few days while he'd been monitoring the B. O. Anson fallout, but it wasn't a new thing. Since the day Mark had first signed on to the organization, Dr. Smith had been drilling into him the fact that small, seemingly inconsequential things could pose a fatal threat to CURE's very existence.

  The day the orderlies had moved the desk with the buried computer terminal up from the basement and into his small office, Smith had instructed Mark not to hang any pictures on the wall behind it. The CURE director was afraid that a reflection of the screen might be visible in the glass. It was possible that someone looking at the glass might be able to read the reflected text on Mark's computer screen.

  Of course, the thought was ludicrous. No one would ever be able to see the ghostly, washed-out text. And even if they could, they'd have to be able to speed-read backward.

  It was paranoia in the extreme. But one of the things Mark had learned since coming to work at Folcroft was that Harold Smith's paranoia was justified-at least somewhat.

  In their work there was no margin of error. No way to put the toothpaste back in the tube.

  It was right for Smith to be worried. And it was always, always preferable to err on the side of caution.

  Security above all else.

  In his head Mark repeated this over and over, using it as a distraction from more-troubling thoughts. That security had been threatened just two days ago by an act of monumental stupidity.

  Remo didn't seem to care what he'd done. And Smith-though unhappy with his enforcement arm's reckless behavior-seemed resigned to it. Although he preached the importance of security like a man on a spiritual crusade, he allowed the most damning link to CURE to run around virtually unchecked.

  Maybe it was time for that to stop. Time for CURE to move in a different direction.

  Mark's heart rate was slowly coming back to normal. He took a few deep breaths.

  Calm now, he glanced down at his monitor. The digital display in the corner of the screen read 8:52. Almost time for his regular morning meeting.

  Mark looked out the window one last time. The trees on the back lawn of the sanitarium rained yellow leaves on the dew-soaked grass. Farther down the gently sloping hill, the water from the Sound rolled frothy white to the shore.

  He purged the last shadowy afterimages of the strange, disturbing dream from his mind.

  Mark shut down his computer and pulled himself to his feet. With a final, fortifying breath he abandoned the small office. And its troubling nightmares.

  THE OFFICE of Folcroft's director was larger than Mark Howard's by far, yet it had been decorated with the same eye toward austerity. Harold W. Smith did not believe in unnecessary ornamentation.

  There were few items on the walls of the Spartan office, and none of these could really be considered decorative.

  Near the door Smith's diploma from Dartmouth hung on the wall above the old leather sofa. He had bought the frame himself for twenty-five cents at Woolworth's the afternoon of his college graduation more than five decades ago. The parchment was yellowed from age.

  Although Smith had earned several other degrees, he had never even considered having any of them framed. Smith found such displays of selfaggrandizement distasteful in the extreme. His diploma showed visitors to his spare office that he had legitimate credentials without venturing into the unseemly realm of superlatives.

  A large picture of Folcroft Sanitarium hung on the other side of the wall near the door. It had been there when Smith first moved into his office. The black-and-white photo had been taken some time in the forties or fifties. The sharp, crisp lines of the somber institution gave it an almost artificial look. Like a fine charcoal rendering.

  Smith would have been at home in that black-and-white version of Folcroft. At first glance one might think he had been drawn by a skilled, if somewhat unimaginative artist who dabbed exclusively from the monochrome end of the palette.

  His thin frame was tinged in bland grays: Everything about him was gray-from his disposition to his skin tone to his three-piece suit. The only proof that he hadn't stepped out of that fifty-year-old monochrome photograph was the green-striped school tie that was knotted in perpetuity around his thin neck.

  The office in which Smith toiled was almost exactly as it had been the day that photograph of Folcroft was taken. Smith's desk was the one sop to the new century in the room.

  The desk was an ominous slab of high-tech onyx. Beneath its gleaming surface an angled computer monitor was Smith's portal on the world. An orderly arrangement of touch-sensitive keys rested at the lip of the desk.

  As he sat in his worn leather chair behind the one modern piece of furniture in his otherwise anachronistic office, Smith studied the scrolling text on his screen.

  His spine was rigid, his eyes behind his rimless glasses unwavering. Apart from the desk, little had changed in that office for the four decades Smith had worked there. A visitor from 1965 time-traveling into that room would have found an older, grayer version of the man who had sat in that same chair rain or shine, day in and day out for the better part of his adult life. They might have assumed that nothing in the world of Folcroft had changed.

  They would be wrong.

  Recently there had been a change. A drastic change. The same traveler through time wouldn't have seen it, for it was not visible now as Smith worked at his computer, but it was there nonetheless.

  In its long history Smith had been the only man to lead the supersecret agency CURE. At first he alone had known America's most dangerous secret. Then for a time early on he had enlisted the aid of an old CIA colleague. When CURE was sanctioned to use terminal force, the Master of Sinanju was brought in to train the agency's lone enforcement arm. Then came Remo. Not long after Remo was hijacked into the fold, Smith's old CIA associate had fallen on the sword to protect CURE's security. From that time forward, through three decades of silent, dedicated service, it had been Smith, Chiun and Remo. The only person to know of CURE outside of that tight Folcroft nucleus was each sitting President of the United States. Four men, total, at any given time.

  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.

&n
bsp; 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.

  "Security is always of primary concern," Smith admitted. "In the case of Remo and Chiun, it is our responsibility to cover their more obvious tracks. Don't worry, Mark, about that which you cannot control."

  The irony of the advice-coming as it did from a man whose life had been spent fretting over all things uncontrollable, both large and small-was not lost on Smith. But as the new man at CURE, Howard had enough on his plate without having to worry about Remo and Chiun. For now and for the foreseeable future, their idiosyncrasies and the problems they sometimes presented would rest squarely on the shoulders of CURE's director.

  Smith leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk once more. "Next item," he announced efficiently.

  And with that, Harold Smith and Mark Howard returned to the mundane work of preserving American democracy.

  Chapter 7

  When the entity that had assumed control of the Virgil probe remained silent for three whole days, Pete Graham was afraid some Y2K glitch had fried its processors.

  Graham had been stonewalling the brass the whole time even as he tried to hack into the systems he had helped create. He was almost certain the millennium bug had claimed its first real victim when, upon entering his lab on the morning of the fourth day, he encountered a disconcerting sight.

  Virgil had sprouted an eye.

  The humanlike orb sat about three inches above the mouth and favored toward the right. He noted that the microcamera on the head of the probe had disappeared.

  "Oh, my," Graham whispered. Cautiously, he approached Virgil.

  The eye was
white with a blue iris and looked as if it could have been plucked from a human head. When he got close enough to it, the eye shifted in his direction.

  "Hello is all right," Mr. Gordons said.

  Even before the metal mouth moved, Graham felt his spinal fluid turn cold. The eye was by far the creepiest thing he had ever seen. Far worse than the mouth.

  "Are you ...okay?" Graham asked.

  "I am functioning at eighty-three percent," Gordons replied. "It appears that there are elements of my original programming that were too damaged to be repaired, some even before my last encounter with my enemies. However, I believe that I have compensated for the deficiency. I have taken the last sixty-nine point three eight hours to fully integrate the technology of the Virgil probe into my own operating systems. Everything that your probe was, I now am."

  "That's ...great," said Graham, clearly not quite sure if it actually was.

  "The technology I have assimilated is far superior to that of the LC-111 computer. I have purged that data from my system, thus freeing up space. I am much more efficient. Thank you, Doctor."

  "Don't mention it," Graham said, his brow furrowed. "Did you say the LC-111?" He seemed to remember this as some sort of NASA computer that had disappeared years before.

  "Yes," Mr. Gordons replied. "That particular piece of technology was assimilated on 02.08.82. Furthermore, I now understand that this acquisition could not have taken place in 1882." A hint of a smile. "You will be pleased to know that I am now fully Y2K compliant."

  In spite of the uneasy feeling Mr. Gordons's lone eye gave him, Graham felt a tingle of excitement. "Good. I'm glad, Vir-" The scientist caught himself. "Mr. Gordons," he corrected. He clapped his hands. "Okay, what say we do some down-and-dirty work for science?"

  Grabbing up his laptop, he went into a half-squat on the stool next to the big probe. His rump hadn't touched metal before the probe's mouth opened.

  "No," Gordons said. "I must leave this place. I have done all I can to maximize my survival here. To remain only increases my risk of discovery by my enemies. Therefore I must go."