The spartan offices of Dr. Harold W. Smith had, for several of the past years, been a quiet place where Smith could focus on his work. Despite having the official title as Senior Administrator of Folcroft Sanitarium, Smith’s actual work involved overseeing a completely different operation, for which the little mental health retreat in Rye, New York was simply a convenient cover.
Harold Smith was one half of a secret government agency known only to three people: himself, Remo Williams, and the President of the United States. It had been his duty as the Director of CURE to monitor current events, isolate patterns of corruption, and identify the root causes of actions that threatened the country. If these root causes could be handled by conventional means, the evidence would find its way through channels to appropriate law enforcement.
At those times when conventional means could not be called upon, however — when the Constitution itself prevented the country from acting in its own best defense — Smith had the license to send in unconventional means.
Those means were Remo Williams.
Smith had served under several presidents in this capacity, ever since his appointment decades ago by a President with the foresight to see the country needed an entity like CURE. And while every President since had known of its existence, and of its necessity, the only power any president had over CURE was the authority to disband the organization; they could not direct CURE to carry out specific assignments.
This latest President had needed a bit more reminding than most, and answering the direct line to the Oval Office that had remained almost entirely disused for the better part of a decade had now become a part of his daily routine.
Smith remotely monitored the daily White House intelligence briefing, as he always did. Then, when it had concluded, he turned toward the black rotary phone and waited. Within thirty seconds, it rang.
“Yes, Mister President?” Smith answered with practiced patience.
“Smith, can’t your guy do something about this immigration nightmare?”
Harold Smith did not sigh audibly. “I’m afraid not, sir,” he replied calmly.
“But there’s a damned invasion!”
“You have the Department of Homeland Security for that, sir.”
The President sighed dramatically. “Yeah, well, every time I try that, some state files a lawsuit. Hey, what about this thing in Little Rock? The press is after my blood since that girl got run over.”
Harold Smith looked at the monitor of the CURE computer, countersunk beneath the glass overlay of his wooden desk and canted at such an angle as to be visible only to him. The CURE computer monitored events worldwide, comparing the minutest similarities in its tireless effort to examine patterns and raise alerts if something were found to be of interest to Smith. Indeed, the Little Rock event was ranking highly on the 3D wireframe model of potential problems CURE might need to solve.
Smith clicked on the item and watched as it expanded and unfolded its details into columns on the monitor. “Little Rock is something we are already aware of,” Smith said. “And we are going to look into it.”
“Can I tweet that?”
“I would recommend against it,” Smith replied respectfully. Since the inauguration, Smith had implemented new protocols and procedures to intercept the President’s social media communications to ensure nothing remotely related to CURE would slip out, either by eliminating the communication altogether or scrambling key words into nonsense.
“Damn it, Smith, the country is forming into mobs,” the President said. “I have to tell people something or it’s going to look like we’ve lost control.”
Smith entered more commands into the computer. The President was right: people were forming into mobs — mobs that confronted each other with increasing regularity. “Mr. President,” Smith replied, “it is my experience that anything you say about the situation would only be used as an excuse for more violence. If you say anything, offer condolences. Ask for people to find common ground.”
“You think I haven’t tried?” The President said. “Believe me, I’ve tried! I denounce the violence; they say I don’t denounce it enough. I denounce it harder; they say I shouldn’t blame both sides. I tell you, I can’t win with these people. They’re the only ones I can’t win with. Everywhere else, I win. I win big. But not with these people.”
As Smith listened, the pattern laid out by the CURE computer analysis algorithm was unmistakable. The screen began to populate with a multiple-column fact table of corresponding names and dollar values. Using next-generation facial recognition technology that would not be on the market for another decade, the CURE computer was able to identify a number of so-called “Fascist Fighters” by their eyes, using images pulled from social media coverage of their last three protests, including the one in Little Rock that had turned deadly. Each of the “Fascist Fighters” had received direct deposits three days prior to each event for $560.00.
Smith’s naturally sour expression became more so. These were decidedly not the signs of a spontaneous, grassroots movement.
“We’ve tried that,” the President said. “Look, I need something from your agency that can fix this. Do you need a bigger budget? I can get you a budget. Believe me, I can get you a big, beautiful budget. I can get you a budget like you’ve never seen.”
“CURE’s budget is well in hand, Mr. President, thank you,” Smith replied hurriedly, thankful Chiun was not present at the time. The ancient Master of Sinanju would prickle at Smith refusing more funding that could go to his home village in North Korea. “And I cannot tell you more, other than that we are concerned about the Little Rock matter, and will be investigating it thoroughly.”
“You’re going to send in your special guy, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid I’ve said all that I can without endangering your plausible deniability, Mr. President,” Smith said. “I will be in touch.”
Smith hung up one phone, opened a drawer in his desk to reveal another. This one was a digitally scrambled line that went directly to CURE’s enforcement arm, Remo Williams.
“What now?” Remo answered.
“Is the tollway closed in both directions?” Smith asked flatly.
“It’s a scrambled line, Smitty,” Remo said. “I don’t need two fortune cookie writers in my life.”
“National security is no joke, Remo,” Smith said.
“Fine, fine,” Remo said. “Traffic is at a standstill in the southbound lanes,” he added, repeating the memorized code phrase to indicate the successful termination of the ambassador.
“Understood,” Smith said. His fingers entered a few quick commands at his keyboard. “There are tickets waiting for you at Sacramento International. I need you back at Folcroft as quickly as possible.”
“Business is booming,” Remo said.
Smith frowned at the phone, noting the almost exuberant tone of Remo’s response. “Isn’t this where you usually complain about having no downtime between missions?”
“What are you talking about, Smitty?” Remo said. “I’m itching and raring to go. Let’s kill a commie for mommy.”
“I’d like to speak with Master Chiun, please.”
“Sure thing,” Remo said. “I’ll go pack.”
Smith heard Remo call out for Chiun, getting a hushed string of Korean in return. A few moments later, “Greetings to you, oh gracious Emperor Smith, whose brilliance eclipses the sun itself.” Chiun had, since his first meeting with Harold Smith, convinced himself that Smith was the shadow-emperor of the United States, in order to reconcile the traditions of Sinanju working exclusively for royalty. “How may the humble House of Sinanju be of service to his excellency?”
Smith got right to the point. “What’s wrong with Remo?” he asked curtly.
“Many things,” Chiun replied. “All of them shameful, but I can only do so much with him. Alas, it would be quicker should I list those things which are not wrong with my son. He is stubborn. He still strikes with his elbow bent. He undeniably lazy and tends toward being messy.”
“Actually, his attitude is uncharacteristically positive,” Smith said. “It’s unlike him to be so eager for an assignment.”
“It is natural for one to find satisfaction in one’s chosen profession,” Chiun said. “Even when it is performed with such mediocrity as my son is determined to employ.”
In the background, Smith could hear Remo whistling as he packed his bags. He decided to try a different approach. “Master Chiun, from your privileged vantage point, have you observed Remo’s behavior to be outside the norm?”
“Always has it been thus,” Chiun said. “I cannot apologize enough for the ignominy my mercurial son has brought upon the House of Sinanju. I do my best to obfuscate his shortcomings in the sacred scrolls, but I fear that much more and I shall find myself engaging in outright prevarication.”
“So, Remo is fine?” Smith asked.
Chiun huffed. “Never would I say that,” he said. “Rather, I shall say that Remo is adequate, and I shall continue to watch over him closely.”
Smith nodded to himself. “I appreciate that, Master Chiun,” he said. “We will talk further upon your arrival at Folcroft.”
· · ·
Across the continent, Chiun looked at the screen of the phone until it reflected that the call had been terminated, then spared a sidelong glance at Remo.
“Zippa-dee doo-dah, Zippa-dee-yay,” Remo hummed as he zipped up his travel case.
Chiun knew that Smith was correct, and there was something wrong with Remo. He knew precisely what it was, and from where it originated.
He would have to watch his son more closely than ever.
· · ·
“I’m telling you, Chiun, I don’t need any more meditation,” Remo said, bursting into the office of Harold Smith. The bickering upon entry was oddly reassuring for Smith. This was normal behavior, a status quo that meant all was right with the world.
“You can never meditate too much,” Chiun said. “Can you breathe too much? Can you think too much?”
“You want to know what I think?” Remo asked.
“I would be satisfied to know that you think,” Chiun said. “The what of it is beneath my concern.”
Smith cleared his throat, the simple action getting the attention of both men.
“If we could get right to this?” Smith asked, archly.
“Sounds serious,” Remo said, taking a seat opposite Smith’s desk.
“It is always serious,” Smith said without humor.
“Eh, not really,” Remo replied. “Some of the things we deal with are pretty ridiculous.”
“Two people are dead and more are likely,” Smith deadpanned. “Is that serious enough for you?”
Remo shrugged. “We’ve seen worse. What’s so special about this case?”
Smith summarily briefed Remo on the Little Rock riot that had resulted in the death of Marissa Meyer and, simultaneously, her assailant.
“So which people died?” Remo asked.
Smith blinked. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Remo said. “One so-called Fascist Fighter, one neo-Nazi. So far, no people.”
“Perhaps you haven’t noticed while you’ve been traipsing about the country first class, but this nation has become a powder keg, and these two people may have lit the fuse,” Smith said tersely. “A lot more deaths may be coming.”
Remo’s expression turned sober. “What do you want us to do about it?” he asked. “Go give everyone a good talking-to? Convince them to calm down and play nice?”
Chiun shook his head sadly. “This will not happen until Americans are at least as advanced as the Bonobo apes.”
“Enough with the apes, already,” Remo said, rolling his eyes. “You see one National Geographic special and suddenly you’re Jane Goodall.”
“They have no war,” Chiun said. “They resolve conflicts peacefully.”
“They throw their poop at you,” said Remo.
“At least that much Americans have managed to emulate,” the Master of Sinanju replied serenely. “There is far to go before the whites evolve further.”
“In this instance, Master Chiun has a point.”
Remo turned to Smith with a double take. “Excuse me?” he said.
“The behavior of the American public has devolved into increasingly polarized camps,” Smith said. “The last election only galvanized these feelings. But on their own, they’re merely chaos. Chaos eventually dissipates — unless someone finds a way to impose order on it.”
“So, you want us to find a way to impose order on chaos?” Remo asked.
“No,” Smith replied. “I am saying that someone is already in the process of weaponizing national discontent.” Smith passed Remo a printout of names, dates, and figures. “This is a list of identified protesters who marched with the Fascist Fighters in Little Rock. A search of their financial records found a disproportionate number of them received payments of similar amounts via direct deposits, from various political action committees and private charitable organizations.”
“Someone’s paying for malcontents,” Remo nodded. “Do you have any idea who’s the bankroll?”
Smith adjusted his glasses, and steepled his fingers. “Not yet, but I’m working on it,” he said. “The situation is more complex than a matter of paid protesters.”
“Paying the rabble to hold the opinion one wishes them to hold is tradition,” Chiun said. “I am surprised Americans are so loath to embrace it. Nero himself paid audience members to applaud his singing, so that others would believe it must have some merit.”
“Did it work?” Remo asked.
Chiun shrugged. “The people began to say he sang beautifully, though, of course, he did not. Truth is not decided by popular opinion. But Nero was a politician above all, and never are they interested in the truth when they consult the voice of the people.” He turned to Remo. “Perhaps you should consider paying people to applaud your clumsy execution of Sinanju? It would not change the truth, but at least someone would tell you how good you are.”
“Nero paid people to express one opinion,” Smith interjected before Remo could respond to Chiun’s provocations. “That is not the case here.” He gave Remo another printout, similar to the first. “These people were involved with the counter-protest. Their accounts showed the same activity as the Fascist Fighters.”
Remo let out a low whistle. “Someone’s playing both sides of the game,” he said.
Smith pursed his lips, his expression dripping with more sourness than usual. “With that level of control, and public opinion already a bubbling cauldron of discontent…”
“Someone could start another civil war,” Remo said, finishing Smith’s thought.
“Exactly my concern,” Smith nodded. “CURE needs you to infiltrate the paid protesters, follow the chain of command, and discover who is pulling the strings.”
“Great,” Remo said with enthusiasm. “Which set of Nazis do you want me to get in with?”
Chiun sniffed. “You are already too many decades late to find Nazis. All that remain are a few pale imitators who still delude themselves into thinking they are superior because they lack melanin in their skin.”
“You’re going to Billings, Montana,” Smith said curtly. “An online advertisement has put out a call for paid protesters to audition there. Your credentials are waiting at the airport.” Smith took the lists back from Remo.
“Your plane leaves in ninety minutes.”