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.It was only amatter of time before the public learned of the abduction.A blue bottle of antacid sat on Smith's desktop.He had opened the bottlethree times in the past sixty minutes.Given the nature of the crisis, therewas no sense putting it away.Each new report Smith read added to the growing tidal wave of nausea wellingup within him.Someone possessed with knowledge of CURE was in the hands of anunknown force.The kidnappers were vicious and ruthless.They had killed more than twentypeople in their murderous route from the hospital subbasement parking area tothe ex-President's eighth-floor room.Their identity was still a mystery.Smith's mind reeled as he considered the possible suspects.As a result ofthis President's very public convictions, the list of potential enemies wasvast.The massive mainframes hidden behind a secret wall in the sanitarium'sbasement had been working overtime since the start of the crisis.Dubbed theFolcroft Four by Smith in a rare display of creativity, the computers hadcompiled a detailed list of the most likely suspects.Smith had always found organization to be the key to every successfuloperation.To this end, he had initiated a program that divided the huge listinto two separate sections: homegrown threats and those from abroad.It was a coin toss to decide which category of potential culprits he shouldbegin sifting through first.In the end, Smith decided to go with those athome, for the simple fact that the former President was kidnapped while onAmerican soil.He would expand the search as circumstances dictated.Alone in his drab office, Smith lowered his hands to the special capacitorkeyboard buried beneath the lip of his gleaming black desk.Casting a final,longing glance at his antacid bottle, he began to sift through page afterelectronic page of likely suspects.He had barely gone over a dozen names whenthe familiar jangle of the blue contact phone cut through the tomblike silenceof his office.Behind his desk, Smith froze.The ex-President had called on that very phone the night before.It waspossible that this was him once more.This time in the hands of an unknownenemy.Realizing that the ringing phone might be sounding the death knell of bothhimself and the organization he led, Harold W.Smith wrapped an arthritic handaround the receiver: With great deliberateness, he answered it.Blood poundedin his ear."Yes," he said, his voice totally devoid of any inflection."The President's been kidnapped."Page 27ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlAt the sound of Remo's voice, Smith released a mouthful of bile-scented air.He hadn't even realized he had been holding his breath."I have heard," Smith said.He spoke in precise, measured tones."You and yourassociate should return to home base at once."Remo sounded puzzled."My associate? You mean Chiun?""Please, no names!" Smith insisted sharply."Cheez, what's wrong with you, Smitty? Somebody spike your Maatox?"The CURE director's heart did a somersault at the mention of his own name."Iam sorry, sir, you have the wrong number," Smith spluttered, lamely covering.Fumbling, he quickly hung up the phone.It rang within three seconds.Smith did his best to ignore it.Remo obviously didn't appreciate the gravity of this situation.If the formerPresident had given away even a small bit of information to hiscaptors-Folcroft, Sinanju, Smith-the organization could already becompromised.Right now, maintaining simple security protocols was moreimportant than ever.As the phone continued to squawk unanswered at his elbow, Smith attempted toconcentrate on his work.Remo's persistence was greater than he'd expected.After a full five minutes of solid ringing, the blue phone finally fellsilent.Smith breathed a sigh of quiet relief.Head swimming with concerns, he threw himself back into his work.Smith hadonly time to scan a dozen or so names of potential kidnappers when there camea timid knock at his closed office door.He lifted his hands from the keyboard.The amber keys faded to black.Thespecial computer monitor beneath the surface of the desk was angled so thatonly the person seated behind it could see it.Confident that everything wasin order, he lifted his head to the door."Come in."Eileen Mikulka, Smith's secretary for the past twenty years, sheepishly rappeda single knuckle against the heavy door even as she pushed it open."I'm so sorry, Dr.Smith," the matronly woman apologized."I know how you hateto be disturbed while you're working.""What is it?" Smith asked, hurrying her along.Her lopsided smile wasuncertain."Your friend Mr.Remo is on the phone," she explained."He says that the fateof the nation is in your hands." She gave a little apologetic shrug.By colossal effort, Smith fought down any hint of a reaction."Put himthrough," he said levelly.Nodding, Mrs.Mikulka backed from the room.Whenthe primary Folcroft line sounded, Smith depressed the blinking light andpicked up the phone."Use the other line," he ordered.He promptly hung up thephone.This time when the blue contact phone rang, Smith answered it."You are behaving recklessly," the CURE director accused."Relax," Remo replied."Your secretary's clueless.And you're actingparanoid."Smith leaned an elbow against his onyx desk, cradling his patrician nosebetween thumb and forefinger.His rimless glasses bit into the bridge."If wemust have this conversation, we will make it brief," he said wearily."Fine with me.Why do you want me and-" Remo caught himself "-my associate tocome back there?""It would be best during the current situation.""Don't you want us to try to find you-know-who?""Possibly," Smith suggested."Eventually.But as I understand it, there are noleads at present.It would be unwise for you to stay in the vicinity, giventhe knowledge that he has recently displayed.""You think he might finger me to someone?""It is a possibility.""No biggie," Remo said."We can take care of anyone who comes our way.""We do not know that," Smith replied."This is a deadly serious situation, andwe are dealing with a faceless enemy."Page 28ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html"You really think this is that big a deal?" Remo asked."Aren't there abouttwenty ex-Presidents kicking around right now? Who's going to miss one?""This conversation is getting too specific," Smith cautioned."Any more so andI will terminate it.""Okay, okay," Remo relented."Here's what I'll agree to.The two of us will doa little snooping on this end.If we come up empty, we'll hightail it backhome.""That is not wise," Smith stressed.He was thinking of all the FBI and SecretService people already on the scene-not to mention the local police andnational press who would swarm into the Los Angeles area once the storybroke."Call me unwise," Remo said."'Cause that's what we're doing.Toodles."As the dial tone hummed in his ear, Smith released the grip on his nose.Adjusting his glasses, he slowly hung up the blue phone.If neither he norRemo was successful in their respective efforts, it might be the last time heused the special contact phone.His head had begun to throb.Smith took two baby aspirins from a childproof bottle stored in his left handdrawer.He washed them down with a healthy swig of antacid
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