Warren Murphy: Disloyal Opposition

They were tired, tie-dyed and bell-bottomed as they clustered together near their open van door. Brandy steered away from Remo and Anna, hurrying over to the new arrivals.

With a frown of deep annoyance, the Master of Sinanju stepped away from them, moving to intercept Remo.

"What the hell?" Remo asked as he watched Brandy join the crowd of aging hippies.

Anna had hurried down the stairs behind Remo. As she caught up to him, her pale face reflected deep suspicion.

"Those are members of this city's ruling council," Anna Chutesov observed, her tone wary. Remo studied the crowd on the sidewalk. The only time he'd seen them, they were nothing but a row of dirty feet sticking out from under a tablecloth. "I'll take your word on that," he said dryly. "We better see what they're doing here."

"Do not waste your breath," Chiun griped as he padded up to them. "These rag wearers are here only to prevent an old man from getting simple sustenance. When they approached us in the restaurant parking lot the female-who-acts-like-a-man thought important some nonsense they were babbling. While I was left to starve, she led them back here."

A warning signal went up in Remo's head. Thinking his senses weren't yet properly attuned to sense a trap, he quickly scanned the shadowy boardinghouse bushes in search of any skulking Russian black marketers. He found none.

Having just been through the same draining experience as his pupil, the Master of Sinanju understood Remo's instinct to second-guess his own senses.

"You are fine," Chiun waved. "If you must know, in addition to forcing an elderly homeless man to waste away to skin and bone, these dirty people said something about seeking an alliance with us. However, if you wish to hear the details you will have to ask them yourselves, for I could not hear their words over the grumbling of my poor empty belly."

Remo looked over at the small group with greater interest. "Don't know about you," he said to Anna, "but it's got me curious."

Taking the lead, he preceded Anna and Chiun to the sidewalk. When he stopped beside Brandy, the FBI agent's youthful face was flushed with excitement.

"They say they want to help us," Brandy said to Remo.

Remo cast a skeptical eye at the crowd. "And we're now going to start trusting the senior-citizen contingent of the Black Panthers because... ?" he asked leadingly.

Gary Jenfeld led the pack of city council members. He had been pleading with Brandy Brand, but with Remo's arrival he turned his hopeful gaze to him. A container of runny Rad Vlad Lenin Caramel Blast ice cream was clutched in his hands.

"You've got to help us stop our Soviet general," Gary begged. "He's costing us a fortune."

Never had Remo's skepticism been vanquished so easily.

That Gary was worried about his bank account was all it took for Remo to instantly believe the sincerity of the retired ice cream manufacturer. Much more than a romantic's love of jackbooted totalitarianism and a burning hatred of all things American, naked greed was the thing that most inspired all unrepentant sixties radicals.

Convinced now of the Barkley city council's sincerity, Remo folded his arms across his chest. With hooded eyes he stared down at Gary Jenfeld.

"Okay," Remo demanded. "Exactly what the hell is going on around here?"

IT WAS 7:30 a.m. on the East Coast, and Mark Howard was taking the long way down to the Folcroft cafeteria.

Over the past day he had been stealing spare moments here and there to wander the halls of the sprawling building. He wanted to acquaint himself with the sanitarium. Pushing open the fire doors, he entered the third floor of the public wing where Folcroft's regular patients were housed.

His new laminated lapel pass identified him as associate director of Folcroft. Apparently, word of old Dr. Smith's new assistant had filtered down to the regular duty staff. Although Mark drew a few furtive glances as he strolled the halls, no one approached him.

Mark was struck yet again by what a tight ship Dr. Smith ran here at Folcroft. Somehow the staff seemed to be unaffected by the disease of laziness that had been spreading for years through the managed-care industry. The floors were scrubbed, the patients seemed well cared for and the staff went about their duties quietly and efficiently.

Mark was heading for the distant stairwell, ready for his usual breakfast of corn flakes and orange juice, when a muted sound caught his attention. It came from an open door to his right. Something made him stop and look.

An old woman in a paisley housecoat was propped up in a hospital bed. She was oblivious to Mark's presence. Her rheumy gaze was directed at a television set that was hooked to an angled shelf high in the corner of the room.

When Mark saw what she was watching, a deep notch formed above the bridge of his nose.

It was one of the regular network morning shows. A weatherman had just wrapped up his forecast, and the two hosts were talking about an upcoming celebrity interview.

As the cohosts jabbered, Mark Howard slowly shook his head. This was not right.

This particular network had been off the air in this part of the country since yesterday. The satellite system it used to broadcast its signal to the East Coast was down.

Since the previous evening, the only regular channels on at all were the Cable News Channel and Home Ticket Booth, both of which were owned by the massive telecommunications conglomerate AIC News-Wallenberg. So dire was the situation that HTB had suspended its regular programming of movies in favor of straight news. Somber-voiced anchors on loan from HTB's sister channel, CNC, had been warning the nation about the seriousness of the satellite outages.

But suddenly here was a normal morning show, with the people on it behaving as if there were nothing wrong.

Something big and shadowy flitted unbeckoned across the back of Mark Howard's mind.

"Excuse me, sir."

He hadn't heard the nurse approach. She was pushing a wheeled serving cart filled with breakfast trays. She wanted to enter the room, but he blocked her way. Mark took a numb step back into the hallway, allowing her to pass.

Another TV played across the hall. The volume was turned down too low for him to hear, but it looked like some kind of nature show. A grizzled fisherman in a red slicker was hauling a bass into a boat.

And as he watched the flickering image of the white-bearded man, the shadow in his mind cleared. In that moment something clicked for Mark Howard.

His breakfast forgotten, he turned and hurried back in the direction from which he'd come. When he burst through the doors into the administrative wing a few moments later, he was already at a sprint. Racing into his office, he quickly locked the door behind him. Hands shaking with excitement, he booted up his computer.

His fingers flew across his clattering keyboard. The Feeling was his guide as he instinctively searched through CURE's massive database. Within minutes he had all the information he needed.

Mark looked around for a way to print out the data.

Of course, there was none. The desk had no hidden printer, and Mark hadn't hooked up a remote one.

Pasting and clipping like mad, he assembled the data into one big text file, sending it as an interoffice e-mail through CURE's closed system. He had no sooner depressed the Send key before he was shutting off his computer and scurrying out from behind his desk.

When he hurried into the office of Smith's secretary, Eileen Mikulka wasn't at her post. Not bothering to knock, he barged into the Folcroft director's office.

As usual Smith was sitting behind his desk. His morning plate of toast was empty and pushed to one side. Half a cup of coffee sat cooling at his elbow.

Even before Mark had pushed inside, the CURE director had been watching the door expectantly. "It's Ted Schwartz," Mark blurted.