Warren Murphy - Line of Succession

More damning than the privacy issues at stake, the letter writer went on, CURE had hired as its enforcement agents the aged head of a house of professional assassins, whose name was Chiun. He was the Master of Sinanju, a ruthless, vicious professional killer. The letter went on to relate that this Chiun had trained a supposedly dead American police officer, one Remo Williams, in the deadly art of Sinanju. Together, under Dr. Smith's direction, the pair had been the unofficial instruments of domestic policy for several administrations, often resorting to assassination and terror. The letter concluded with the hope that Michael Princippi might use this information to further his quest for the presidency. The letter was signed, simply, "Tulip."

Michael Princippi folded the letter thoughtfully and replaced it in its envelope. It was on his mind that maybe he was not the only one to receive such a letter from the mysterious Tulip. Perhaps the Vice-President had gotten one too. That would certainly explain why a speech about covert operations was given at an odd place like Folcroft Sanitarium.

Michael Princippi decided to look into the specific details the letter claimed would prove that CURE existed.

After that he would have his writers prepare a speech in which Michael Princippi, too, promised America that when he assumed office the American intelligence community would be purged of all extralegal operations. Scratch that, he thought quickly. He would ask the writers to put it another way-one which would show both the Vice-President and the head of CURE that Michael Princippi was on top of intelligence matters too.

Dr. Harold W. Smith waited until the Vice-President's entourage had left the Folcroft grounds before he called the President.

To pass the time, he locked his office door on his gushing secretary-who couldn't get over the fact that Folcroft had hosted the Vice-President of the United States-and brought up the concealed computer terminal from its desktop recess.

Smith scanned the digest feeds of possible CURE-related news events. There were the usual gangland murders, updates on ongoing federal investigations, national-security bulletins, and CIA "burn notices." Nothing of immediate importance. Today nothing would have seemed important. But somehow the flashing green blocks of data smoothed Harold W. Smith's unquiet soul. Seated behind a computer screen, he was in his element.

When he was done, Smith removed the red telephone from the desk drawer and picked up the receiver. He cleared his throat as, without any other action on his part, an identical phone somewhere in the White House began ringing.

"Hello?" said the cheery voice of the President of the United States. "I hope this isn't an emergency. I'm really enjoying my last few weeks in office. Do you know that I've had three offers this week to play myself in a movie? My advisers say it would demean the office if I accepted them, but I don't know. I'm going to have a lot of time on my hands and, darn it, I'd like to get in front of the cameras again. What do you think?"

Without skipping a beat, Smith plunged into what he had to say. "Mr. President, we've been compromised."

"The Soviets?" The President's voice shook.

"No."

"The Chinese?"

"No, Mr. President. It is not a foreign matter. I have reason to believe that your Vice-President has learned about CURE."

"Well, I didn't tell him," the President insisted.

"Thank you for volunteering that, Mr. President. I needed to hear it directly from you, just to keep the record straight. That settled, he does know. He just gave a speech on the ground of my cover institution in which he all but acknowledged it openly."

"Well, what's so bad about that? When he's elected, he'll be your boss. At least it won't be a shock to him like it was to me. Why, I remember when the last President broke the news to me, I-"

"Yes, Mr. President," Smith cut in. "That's not the point. Listen carefully. First, somehow the information got out. That means a leak somewhere. Second, the Vice-President's speech contained a not-very-veiled threat to shut down my operation."

"Hmmm," said the President. "Could be just talk. You know, get the voters stirred up."

"No, sir. I'm sure the Vice-President arranged for this speech specifically to send me a message."

"Well, as you know, once I leave office, I will have no influence upon the Vice-President, but I'll talk to him if that's what you want."

"No, Mr. President, that is not what I want. It will be the decision of the next President, once he assumes office, to decide whether or not to sanction future CURE operations. As you know, we exist at the discretion of the current officeholder. I am prepared to be terminated, if it comes to that. "

"Well-spoken. So what's the problem?"

"As I said, if the Vice-President knows about CURE, and you did not tell him, he obtained his information from another source. Which means that someone outside of the loop knows. For security reasons, the person in question must be eliminated, or CURE must go. One or the other. That is the decision I am asking you to make, Mr. President. "

"Well, now, I don't know about this," said the President carefully. "Can I sleep on it?"

"Do you wish me to investigate the leak on this end before you come to your decision?"

"Why don't you do that, Smith," the President said amiably. "Yes, go to it. Let me know what happens."

"Yes, Mr. President," said Harold W. Smith, and hung up. He frowned. The President had not seemed concerned. True, it was his own Vice-President who had learned the truth, but that was not Smith's principal problem. It was the source of the Vice-President's information. For all Smith knew, CURE could be an open secret in the executive branch. And he couldn't very well order the liquidation of the President's entire cabinet and advisers to preserve CURE.

Instead, Smith knew he should be prepared to execute his ultimate responsibility as CURE's director-the destruction of operations and his own suicide.

Chapter 5

He crossed the Green Line on foot.

He carried no weapon. It was suicide to cross the Green Line unarmed. The Syrians often looked the other way, even though they had nominal control over the city. The Lebanese Army was virtually invisible. Even the native militias-of which there were several-did not cross the Green Line with impunity.

But he would. He had business in the western part of the city. And because he was not in a hurry, he walked, his white sandals making no sound on the streets littered with crushed glass. No wind stirred his blond mane of hair. The purple silk of his garments stood out, the only splash of color in a city that had once been the jewel of the Middle East but was now a scorched and shattered ruin.

Tonight Beirut was quiet, as if dead. In a way, it was. He crossed the Green Line where it paralleled the Rue de Damas. Here the Green Line was truly green. It was a sunken strip of perpetually muddy ground fed by a broken water main. Ferns grew profusely. He stepped through them, and although he was quiet, the fat rats scrambled out of his way, their beady eyes bright with a too-human fear.

He found the Rue Hamrah easily. He walked between the cracked facades of its high-rise buildings. The remains of firebombed cars sat rusting on their wheels like permanent fixtures. He felt eyes upon him. No doubt they were peering through the bullet holes that pocked the few buildings which hadn't been reduced to twisted tangles of concrete and reinforced wire. He felt a subliminal pressure against his back that warned him the barrels of automatic weapons were pointed at him.

Even at night, they would see that he was white. He wondered if they would decide to kill him, or possibly take him hostage. He was not worried. He had asked for this meeting. They would at least hear him out. And if they decided to harm him, they would learn that not all people who happened to be born in America were frightened by the Hezbollah.