He drove through the congested center of town. A new street built in the 1980s led to the rear entrance of a big apartment complex. A dozen four-story buildings squatted on what had once been farmland. Smith parked his car in front of Building B. Briefcase in hand, he headed for the door.

A row of doorbells was lined neatly on a panel. Smith ran an arthritic finger down the list of names next to the door. He stopped at the one labeled Mark Howard.

Smith pressed the bell.

Howard was Smith's assistant. The younger man was supposed to have been filling in for his employer at work these past few days. But Smith had phoned the office a few times while he was away, and Howard had failed to answer.

At first Smith thought something might be wrong. But he had used his briefcase laptop to check the phone lines and the CURE mainframes for tampering. The agency was secure.

Smith was going to phone his secretary, but decided against it. He didn't want to involve her if it turned out to be a CURE problem. She had no idea what her employer actually did for a living. Besides, Smith suspected he knew what the problem was.

Mark Howard had not been feeling well these past few weeks. He seemed to be suffering from some form of mental exhaustion that was affecting his work. Smith had even given Howard some time off, but when the crisis in South America came he was forced to call his assistant back to work.

Smith wound up staying in South America longer than he had expected, to make certain the danger that took him there was completely eliminated. If Mark's condition had worsened in the five days Smith was away, the young man might have gone home to rest.

At least that's what Smith had assumed. But if Mark was home, he should have answered his door. Smith rang the bell again. When there was still no answer, the CURE director frowned. A tingle of concern fluttered deep in his belly.