Political Pressure td-135

by Warren Murphy

  "Here I am," said the fifth man, who now stood at Spacey's elbow.

  Spacey and Nor were so surprised that their expressions betrayed it. Spacey's eyebrow twitched. Nor blinked three times very fast.

  "Whoa, guys, don't get all freaked out on me now," said the fifth man. "I don't think the commander in chief is done commanding."

  Spacey and Nor put the phones back to their ears and, exercising their extensive training, managed to regain their emotionless demeanor.

  "Yes, sir. Sir? Yes, sir."

  The senator opened his eyes when the agent tapped his shoulder. "For you, Senator Whiteslaw," Spacey explained. "It's the President."

  Whiteslaw took Spacey's cell phone. Nor handed his to the fifth man, whom the senator was surprised to see, and was more surprised to recognize.

  "Yes, Mr. President," he answered, distracted by the dark-eyed, dark-haired man.

  "Wait a moment, Senator," the President said.

  "Here," Spacey called to the driver, and the ambulance pulled to the curb. Spacey and Nor opened the rear doors, which finally alerted the EMT to the strange goings-on and dragged his attention away from the electronic displays that were constantly taking the senator's vitals. The EMT saw sunlight streaming in.

  "What in blazes are you doing?"

  "Going to get drunk and forget the whole thing," Spacey reported in a monotone.

  "As ordered," Nor tacked on

  "You're coming with us," Spacey added.

  "You were ordered to get drunk?" the EMT demanded.

  "As were you."

  "Bye," said Remo Williams as the EMT was manhandled out of the ambulance.

  "Bennigans? This is where you Secrets go when you wanna get schnockered?" the EMT cried. "That explains a lot!"

  The doors slammed and the ambulance started moving again. Senator Whiteslaw got on the mobile phone.

  "Yes, Mr. President?"

  Remo was supposed to be in on the call, but he and mobile phones were sworn enemies. This phone had a little TV screen that showed an animated scene of autumn leaves—he wouldn't begin to know how to make the thing work. He gingerly put the phone through the slot in the wall-mounted container labeled Danger Of Biological Contamination.

  The senator was getting flustered. "You must be joking, Mr. President."

  Remo had his opinions about the current man in the White House, but he didn't think of the guy as a joker. When he thought of joking presidents he thought of that Democrat two-termer from the 1990s. Now that guy came up with some real knee-slappers.

  "Of course, Mr. President," the senator said. "Yes. Of course."

  The senator hung up, and his gaze turned to the dark- eyed man. "Your name is Remo, and I guess you saved my life only to put it in jeopardy again."

  "Nothing personal, Senator."

  "Think you can keep me from dying twice in one day?"

  "I'll do my best."

  "How good is that?"

  Remo shrugged.

  But Whiteslaw already knew, because he had seen Remo in action, and it was something he would never, ever forget. Another interesting factoid, a guess but almost a certainty, was that saving lives was not what Remo was trained for. Quite the contrary.

  Which made the man whose name was Remo a very interesting person indeed.

  33

  The blue phone rang, and Smith put it on speaker for Mark's benefit. The two executive-level employees of CURE had been discussing strategy, and getting nowhere.

  "Remo?"

  "Good afternoon, Emperor Smith," sang the lilting voice from the speaker. It was a voice like a cherry blossom floating on the breeze. Smith instinctively distracted it.

  "Yes, Master Chiun, is there a problem?"

  "Of course not, Emperor. This undertaking is well in hand."

  Smith knew Chiun was likely uninformed as to what the undertaking actually was, and likely didn't care outside his own duties in the matter. How he could therefore assure them that it was "well in hand"...?

  "I have a matter to discuss with you. I hear the young Prince Regent with you—it is good for you both to listen to my proposal."

  Mark smirked. He hadn't said a word. Could Chiun hear him breathing over the phone? Or had he simply assumed from the sound of the speakerphone that Smith had company?

  "Master Chiun, you are en route to the senator's office, are you not?" Smith asked. "You must be about to arrive. I don't know if this is the best time to discuss unrelated matters."

  "One moment, Emperor," Chiun said pleasantly. They heard the phone become muffled, and Chiun was speaking to someone else. "Driver! How soon do we arrive at the bureaucrat's lair?"

  A woman's voice said, "I have a name, you—" There was a yelp. Smith closed his eyes. The woman said, "ETA six minutes, sir."

  "The hospital chauffeur reports we are still twelve minutes from our destination, Emperor," Chiun said into the phone, the embodiment of graciousness. "There is time for this, and you must agree we have delayed it long enough."

  Smith frowned, and realized that Chiun had been attempting to draw him into this conversation in the past few days. Not exactly a long time. "Proceed, Master Chiun," Dr. Smith said reluctantly, hoping this wasn't going to be a ploy to renegotiate their contract.

  "It is in regards to the current assignment."

  "It is?" Smith asked. "How?"

  "Pertaining to this upstart alliance of politicians and their hired killers—it is my belief that they pose a unique threat to CURE."

  Smith didn't know what to make of this. Why hadn't Chiun made this clear to him from the outset? What did Chiun know? "Please explain, Master Chiun."

  "It is possible that this mob of MAEBEs could lead ultimately to the demise of our organization," Chiun restated.

  "How?"

  "Through superior marketing, good Emperor."

  Smith said, "Marketing?"

  "But I have devised a scheme to halt the hemorrhaging."

  "What hemorrhaging and marketing are you referring to?"

  "I have retained the services of a wonderful public- relations agent from the Windbag City."

  "You did what?" Smith asked, aghast.

  "She was the artisan who promoted the campaign by the late Governor Bryant to empty the jails for his own profit," Chiun explained with delight, while Smith's gray face became as pale as corpse flesh. Mark Howard hoped the old doctor wasn't about to have a heart attack. "She's a drunkard, of course, but obviously a genius. Look at the fairy tale that was connived in the state of Chicago—and this young genius convinced the people to believe it all. When her role in perpetrating this magnificent he becomes known, her services will be in great demand—you must hire her at once or she will be snatched up by the tobacco makers."

  Mark saw a slight tinge of healthy gray return to Dr.

  Smith's flesh and he said cautiously, "So you have not hired her, Master Chiun?"

  "I wired her funds to hold the option on her services. The option does expire soon, however."

  Smith typed as he said, almost gently, "And what does she know at this point about the public-relations campaign you have devised?"

  "Nothing. I will not put my trust in her until she is contracted to us—what if our competitor were to hire her and learn our intentions?"

  "What competitor?" Smith demanded.

  "As I explained, Emperor, I refer to this organization, MAEBE." Chiun's polite patience was waning. "These upstarts are doing what we do, are they not, flushing out the human waste in the governmental plumbing? Unlike us, they have elaborate plans to publicize their achievements and grow rich on the currency of public accolades. We must beat them to the punchball. You must come out of the closet, reveal yourself to the world, advertise your great successes. You will become magnificent in the eyes of the people, and this popularity will enable you to effortlessly take the Eagle Throne at last!"

  Smith was simply staring at the speakerphone, and Mark Howard could see the man trying to organize the long list of responses he mi
ght have made to Chiun's sales pitch.

  "Master Chiun," Dr. Smith began.

  "Yes."

  Mark Howard got to his feet. Smith looked at him. Howard paced the office fast.

  "Master Chiun, I will consider your proposal," Smith said. "Say nothing to this marketing agent until I have issued my decree."

  It was just the right response, noncommittal but enough to cut off the conversation, then and there.

  "Proceed with the current assignment and report in when completed. I shall ponder the options."

  "Yes, Emperor!" Chiun replied, clearly delighted.

  Smith cut the line.

  "What is it?" he asked Howard.

  "Public relations. That's the angle we need. We have to beat them at their own game."

  "Pardon me?"

  "The whole MAEBE strategy is to take the high ground, while the White Hand wipes out corruption, right?" Howard asked. "But Chiun is right—it's all just a marketing campaign. They're creating an image for themselves. Let's ruin that image."

  Smith frowned. "MAEBE politicians are riding on the public controversy created by White Hand activities without actually taking responsibility for them. I don't know that we have evidence enough to convince the public of MAEBE's culpability. What if we released our proof and the public didn't buy it, Mark? There would be a backlash, and MAEBE would come out ahead."

  Mark nodded. "I agree. MAEBE has been too careful to keep its political and terrorist arms separate. But

  I'm not talking about the White Hand at all. I'm suggesting we target the politicians."

  "You want CURE to run negative campaign ads?" Smith asked incredulously.

  "I want us to do what we always do—dig up dirt. Only we dig it up on the MAEBE candidates. They can't be as clean as they claim. If we find a closet skeleton that needs some extra dirt, we can massage it, make it look worse than it is."

  "Lie?"

  "Why not?"

  "We'd be taking the low ground."

  "Compared to letting Remo and Chiun kill them off one by one and risk making martyrs out of them?"

  Smith nodded shortly. "You're right. Let's do it. Start putting together some press releases and incriminating evidence."

  Howard grinned. "I'm on it."

  Smith didn't smile. "I hope you're not going to charge me what Chiun is paying his PR agent in Chicago, just for a retainer." Smith tapped the screen. Mark leaned in to see the amount that Chiun had advanced on one of his alias credit cards, which were covered by the CURE operating budget.

  "Criminy," Howard said. "I don't make that in a year."

  He left for his own office.

  34

  "What is this place?" Chiun demanded as the ambulance rolled to a stop.

  "The Old S.O.B.," the ambulance driver said, then caught herself as the child-sized Korean became as stern as a gathering thunderstorm. "That's what they call the building," she explained hastily. "The Old S.O.B."

  Chiun did not know whether to believe her. He lowered the window, and the nearest of the ridiculous army of Secret Service agents tried not to respond to him.

  "Please do not say you are attempting to look like mere pedestrians," Chiun announced stridently, so that he could be heard by everyone within fifty paces. "You are all quite inept at passing yourselves off as anything other than Secret Service agents."

  The nearby agent was in a panic of indecision. The orders had been odd enough—offer protection for the arriving senator but under no circumstances interfere with him or any who accompanied him.

  The agent decided anything was better than allowing the old man to continue blowing their cover. "Yes, sir, how can I assist you?" He spoke out of the side of his mouth, sidling up to the ambulance as if he were merely another pedestrian in a trench coat, wing tips, sunglasses and a radio earpiece.

  "What is this building called?"

  "It's the Russell Building," the agent answered, confused.

  "I see," the old man said, his voice as brittle as ice.

  "Wait!" the woman at the wheel called. "Tell him the nickname!"

  Now the agent was more confused.

  "Most everybody just calls it the Old Senate Office Building," said Senator Whiteslaw himself as he and a thin man emerged from the rear of the ambulance, which seemed to have opened in virtual silence. "They call it the Old S.O.B. for short."

  "I see," the Asian man repeated, and stepped out of the ambulance cab with a last, cold glare at the driver.

  Remo was holding the senator by the shoulder. Whiteslaw was getting his first close-up look at the small Asian figure who had accompanied his strange new bodyguard, Remo. The Asian looked as if he predated the Wright brothers, but he didn't show any sign of infirmity.

  The old Asian proved his fitness by putting his scrawny, ancient arms around Whiteslaw's middle and lifting him, apparently without effort. Between the young assassin, and the old one—yes, Whiteslaw was convinced this one was an assassin as well—they had him almost completely off his feet and perfectly balanced. Whiteslaw went through the motions of walking; the truth was that if he put any more weight on the soles of his feet he would scream in pain. His soles had taken the brunt of the blast and ignited the leather of his shoes. Only Remo's quick action had snuffed them out.

  The attack had put the media on alert. They had never dreamed the senator would put in a show at his office, but there were production crews working the steps anyway, getting reaction from other senators and their staff and trying to get more facts behind the blossoming rumors.

  When the news crews saw the victim of the attack himself arriving back at work less than an hour after the attack, obviously wounded, his feet covered in hastily applied bandage wads and perched on the shoulders of two oddly dressed assistants, there were cries of journalistic ecstasy.

  Two camera crews stampeded toward the senator, the correspondents and cameramen pushing and shoving one another until both crews ended up in a brawl in the gutter. They were closely followed by two more crews who were just as ambitious but marginally less self-destructive.

  "Start rolling now," screeched a waif of a woman in a brilliant orange jacket three sizes too large. Her camera operator started up the camera while he was running, and he stumbled on a sidewalk crack. The waif wailed. The cameraman fumbled the heavy unit and saved himself from collapse by steering into one of the thirty or so pedestrians who just happened to all be wearing trench coats, sunglasses and radio earpieces. The pedestrian pretended the brutal collision hadn't happened and hobbled away whistling, apparently admiring the architecture, while the cameraman started taping.

  The correspondent composed herself, then spoke in a deadly serious cockney accent. "This is Sandra Chattersworthy at the Old Senate Building—"

  "This is Derek Mueller in Washington D.C.," boomed the correspondent from a competing crew, drowning out the tiny woman. "Here on the steps of the Old Senate Office Building a brave man, Senator Herbert Whiteslaw—"

  That was as far as he got before the small woman ran up and screeched at his chest, directly into his handheld microphone. The cameraman ripped off his headset and nearly lost his equipment as he danced with his hands to his ears.

  "British bitch!" bellowed the big correspondent.

  "American swine!"

  "Hello? Hello? Oh, God, I'm deaf!" The mortified cameraman looked as if he were trying to crush his own head.

  "Shut up and start shooting!"

  The cameraman didn't hear him.

  The big-mouthed correspondent roared in frustration and manhandled the camera off his debilitated cameraman, shoving it at a man in a trench coat who just happened to be standing around.

  "Point this in my direction for thirty seconds and I'll pay you a thousand dollars."

  The man in the trench coat pretended not to see him.

  "Asshole!"

  "I'll do it." A passing construction worker, with a mortar trowel dangling from a loop on his overalls, took the camera. "Thousand bucks, right?"

&
nbsp; "Yes, just start shooting—oh, shit!" The correspondent had lost his subject matter. The wounded senator had not stood around and waited. He was near to entering the Old S.O.B., and the limey pixie with the fingernails-on-chalkboard voice was doing her report!

  "Come on!" The correspondent went at the British woman in a crouch, changed his mind at the last second and steered into her equipment assistant. The man made a croak of dismay as he toppled, his video camera landing hard enough to produce several shattering sounds.

  "You miserable worm!"

  Orville Flicker watched it all, live, his own cameraman getting it all on a digital camcorder with an uplink through a mobile broadband connection. Flicker's cameraman was just some kid from a community college, hired for a one-time job and instructed to keep his distance. Still, the banshee voice of the tiny British woman came through clear enough to vibrate Flicker's water glass.

  Despite the screaming, the big correspondent positioned himself where the slow-moving senator would pass within the shot. The blue-collar man in the overalls jogged up and pointed the camera.

  "Where did that son of a bitch come from?" Flicker demanded.

  His assistant, Noah Kohd, talking on two mobile phones at once, started to answer.

  "Shush!" Flicker said. "Where the hell is Rubin?"

  "On his—" Kohd said.

  "Oh, no." Flicker turned up the sound on one of the news feeds. "We're going live now to the our correspondent at the Old Senate Office Building...."

  "This will ruin everything," Flicker complained through grinding teeth. "Whiteslaw can't be a media darling—he can't!"

  "Under control, sir," Kohd said.

  "Under control? Under control?" Flicker felt the pressure in his head become so great he thought his skull would open up violently.

  "There, sir," Kohd said.

  On the screen from his own video feed, Kohd saw the bricklayer with the video camera sprint away, taking the camera with him. The little British woman brayed viciously and hysterically. The big correspondent stood there for a long moment, not believing what he was seeing, then burst into sobs.