And the information all found its way into the massive secret computer banks at the Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York. There, a tall, lemony man with a dry, well-mannered voice—Dr. Harold W. Smith, the public director of the sanitarium and the secret head of CURE—one morning pushed some buttons on his desktop computer console and watched the pattern emerge.

He shook his head slightly and almost allowed himself a look of satisfaction. If he was right, CURE would be able to take a major step against one of the most powerful organized-crime groupings in the country. He punched instructions into the computer for more information.

Then he sat back and waited.

The normal quitting time for most people came and went. Dr. Harold W. Smith stayed at his desk.

The normal dinner hour passed.

As he had countless thousands of times, he ordered a prune-whip yogurt with lemon topping from the sanitarium kitchen and quietly nibbled at it while he waited. Early evening turned into late night, and late night into early morning before the small amber indicator light flashed on his desk.

He raised the console from the center panel of the

14

desk, depressed a handful of keys, and watched as pale green letters and numbers began appearing on a dark green background. Smith studied them for a moment, then reached for the telephone.

That had been more than a week before, and at the end of the line was Remo and his assignment. Mass murder.

That was what depressed Remo. Not the killing itself. He had long since stopped thinking about the taking of a target's life in any terms other than whether or not liis technique was as clean and pure as it should be. Remo was an assassin, nothing more, nothing less, the Destroyer, Shiva incarnate, and a professional.