"The governor gave that speech the other day," Smith said flatly. But he read the lead paragraph anyway.
"Oh, my God," Smith said slowly.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Smitty?"
"Princippi knows too," Smith breathed.
"That's what I thought," said Remo. "The way he ended his speech with the line about curing the country. It just seemed odd to me. What do you mean, 'too'?" Remo said suddenly.
"The Vice-President knows," said Smith, glassy-eyed. He stared at the ceiling.
"Well, that isn't so terrible, is it? I mean, if anyone had to find out, those guys aren't exactly the worst possibilities."
"It's not who they are," Smith said. "It's where they learned about CURE-assuming that is the case."
"The President?"
"He assures me that he did not. And we know that none of the former presidents could have revealed the truth."
"Yeah," said Remo. "Chiun and I have seen to that. A quiet visit while they're sleeping and a simple pressure on a nerve in their temples. A few whispered words, and instant selective amnesia. They don't remember that CURE exists."
"No, the leak is not from our government, past or present. I feel confident about that much."
"What are you going to do about it? I know it won't matter to me and Chiun. We'll be out of here in another few days, but if CURE is terminated, you go down the tubes with it. Call me sentimental, but I'd hate to see that happen. "
"Thank you, Remo. It's very kind of you to say that."
"You know, Smitty," Remo said casually, "I used to hate you."
"I know."
"What you did to me-the frame for a killing I didn't do, the faked electric chair, the grave with my name on it-it was all pretty nasty."
"It was necessary. We needed a man who no longer existed because the organization would not officially exist."
"But it worked out. Look at me. I'm Sinanju now. Over in Korea I have a beautiful girl waiting for me and a house I built with my own hands. Everything is going to be all right. I feel pretty good about it. Oh, there were some rough times, but it's going to work out for me. I want it to work out for you too."
"Thank you, Remo," said Smith sincerely. He was uncomfortable with displays of emotion, but he and Remo had been through many trials together. It felt good to know that Remo no longer held a grudge. "Perhaps, Remo, you can do me a favor."
"What's that?"
"The Vice-President has just escaped an assassination attempt. I'm detailing Chiun to watch over him in case there is another incident. Could you pitch in?"
Remo considered. "Sounds like an easy gig. Okay, Smitty. One last assignment. A freebie."
"Thank you," said Smith. "I can't tell you how much this means to me."
"Just keep the submarine gassed up," said Remo, smiling. And he left the room whistling cheerfully.
Chapter 10
Security around Blair House was the tightest it had been since 1950, when Puerto Rican nationalists had tried to assassinate President Truman, who had been living there while the White House was undergoing renovation.
After the attempt on his life in Philadelphia, the Vice-President had been flown back to Washington to decompress. His private home was considered impossible to defend, so he had taken up residence at Blair House-where visiting heads of state usually stayed-across the street from the White House. Movable concrete barriers were placed in front of the ornate gray building to discourage car bombs, which were a favorite tactic of Middle Eastern terrorists. Snipers were deployed on the roof, and Secret Service agents patrolled the neighborhood, walkie-talkies in hand.
There had been no concrete identification made of the would-be assassin in Philadelphia. He had died at the scene. But he was believed to be a Middle Easterner, nationality unknown. It was assumed that the man had not acted alone because a taxi was seen leaving the scene. It was later found abandoned, its driver murdered in the back seat. A witness had come forward and described three Middle Eastern nationals who had been seen running from the car, and although a manhunt for persons of that type was immediately initiated, no trace of any accomplice was found. But the tentative identification of the dead attacker as Middle Eastern had galvanized the Secret Service. They were prepared for any terrorist attack on the Vice-President's life short of a tactical nuclear weapon.
They were not prepared for the two men who sauntered down Pennsylvania Avenue as if they owned it and all the land around it as far as the eye could see.
Secret Service Agent Orrin Snell received a routine notification when the two passed a Secret Service checkpoint near the George Washington University Hospital.
"Two subjects coming your way," the checkpoint told him via walkie-talkie.
"Descriptions?" Snell asked.
"Male Caucasian, about five-eleven, weight 155, brown on brown, and wearing a black T-shirt and gray chinos. Accompanied by a short male Oriental, balding, age approximately eighty."
"Describe Oriental's attire."
"Words fail me," said the checkpoint. "You'll know him when you see him. He's dressed like Pinky Lee."
"Like who?"
"Like Pee-Wee Herman."
"Oh," said Snell, understanding perfectly. The pair were just coming into view now. He sized up the Caucasian with a glance. No trouble from that quarter. The guy was obviously unarmed. The Oriental was very short and very old. He wore a red business suit that would have been well-tailored except that the sleeves flared like those of a mandarin's robes. He walked with his hands tucked into the sleeves so that they were unseen. There was plenty of room in those sleeves to conceal a pistol or a grenade.
Agent Snell drew his automatic from its shoulder holster reflexively. He was not taking any chances.
"Do not point that offensive thing at me," said the small Oriental in a squeaky voice.
"Hold on, Little Father. Let me handle this," the Caucasian said.
"Please stand perfectly still," Snell ordered. "I need backup here," he called into the walkie-talkie. Almost before the words were out of his mouth, two other agents came around the corner, pistols at the ready.
"What's the problem, pal?" the Caucasian asked.
"No problem, if you cooperate. I'd like your friend to take his hands out of his sleeves. Slowly."
"Is he crazed?" asked the Oriental of the taller man.
"Just do it. He looks nervous."
The Oriental shrugged and separated his sleeves, revealing what agent Snell at first mistook for a handful of needles. Then he realized he was looking at the longest fingernails he had ever seen in his life.
"Okay;" Snell said slowly. "I guess there's no problem." The other agents lowered their weapons.
"Excellent," said the Oriental brightly. "Now perhaps you can render us some assistance. We are seeking the residence of the President of Vice."
The pistols came back up.
"What do you want to know for?" asked Snell.
"We're tourists," said the Caucasian hastily.
"Tourists are not allowed into Blair House," said Snell.
"Our mistake," replied the Caucasian. "We'll be on our way now."
"I'll have to ask for identification before you go," Snell said.
The Caucasian turned his pockets inside out, showing empty linings.
"Must have left mine back in Peoria," he said.
"I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju. I carry no identification because all worthy persons know of me," the Oriental proclaimed.
"You don't have any identification either?" asked Snell.
"If you wish someone to vouch for me, ask your President. He knows me personally."
"He does?" said Snell, for a heart-stopping moment wondering if he had stopped a visiting dignitary.
"Yes," said the Oriental, returning his hands to his sleeves. "I saved his life once."
Behind the two men, one of the other agents mouthed a silent word: crackpots. Snell nodded.
"Why don't you just go on your way?" he said.
"That's what we were doing," said the Caucasian. Agent Orrin Snell watched them walk away.
"Talk about the odd couple," Snell joked, shaking his head. "Did you hear what he called the little guy-father. Okay, everybody back to your stations."
After his men had returned to their positions, Snell couldn't resist looking down the street after the strange pair. They were gone. Pennsylvania Avenue was deserted and there was no obvious place the pair could have gone. They were not across the street. He radioed to the next checkpoint.
"I've lost sight of a male Caucasian and an Oriental coming your way. Any contact?"
"Negative," was the reply.
Snell rushed up the Blair House steps and knocked on the ornate door in code.
Another agent poked out his head. "No problems?" Snell demanded.
"None. What do you have?"
"Nothing. Must be a false alarm. I'll be glad when this scare is over," he said, returning to the street. He took his usual position and wondered where the pair had gone. As long as they hadn't gone into Blair House, then it wasn't his problem, he decided.
Remo paused with his head just under the roof cornice of Blair House.
"Getting old, Little Father?" Remo called down. "You used to be the first one to the top."
The Master of Sinanju climbed around a window until he had reached Remo's level.
"I am not getting old," Chiun snapped. "It is these American clothes. They are not made for scaling."
"Maybe you should go back to kimonos," Remo suggested, grinning.
"Nonsense. I am in service to America. I will dress like an American. Did you see how I got us past that foolish guard without arousing his suspicions?"
"That's not how I remember it, Chiun. And if you don't lower your voice we're not going to get past the guards on the roof."
"There are guards on the roof?"
"Listen. You can hear them breathing."
The Master of Sinanju cocked a delicate ear. He nodded. "They will be easy to handle. One of them breathes like a bellows. A tobacco addict, I am sure."
"Why bother?" said Remo. "Let's go in a window."
"Do you have any special window in mind?" whispered Chiun. "I do not want to find myself in a lady's bedroom by mistake."
Remo grinned. "I'll see what I can do." And like a spider in its web, Remo slipped down the building's side until he found an unlit window. Clinging to the casement, he ran one fingernail around the edge of the pane. The glass squeaked like a nail being pulled from a tree.
Chiun joined him, hanging gingerly so that his fingernails were not chipped by the brick.
"If you would grow your nails to the proper length," he said, "you would not get that mouse-squeak sound."
"I can live with a little noise," said Remo, pressing his palm against the glass to test its resistance.
"No," admonished Chiun. "You could die from a little noise. "
"Right," said Remo. "Watch this." And he popped the glass in with a smack of his palm. The hand followed the glass in with eye-blurring speed. When Remo withdrew the hand, he held the glass pane between two fingers, intact.
"After you," said Remo, executing as much of a bow as he could, considering that he clung to the side of a building with one hand and both feet.
The Master of Sinanju slipped into the open frame like colored smoke drawn into an exhaust vent. Remo went in after him.
The room was dark. Remo set the pane on a long table and made for the illuminated outline of a door.
In the hall, the light was mellow. It came from brass wall lamps. The wallpaper was expensive and tasteful-but it was almost as thick as the rug. There was a still air about the hall usually found in museums.
Remo went first. He had no idea where the Vice-President would be quartered and said so.
"Pah!" said Chiun. "It is simple. Look for the largest concentration of guards. Then look for the nearest locked door. Behind it we will find the one we seek."
"What happens if they see us first?"
"A good assassin is never seen first," Chiun said, leading the way.
The entire floor was deserted. "Up or down?" asked Remo. "Most rulers equate height with safety," said Chiun.
"Then it's up," said Remo, starting for the stairs.
"But when one's life is in danger, the closer one is to the ground, the quicker one can escape an attack. "
Remo stopped in his tracks. "Down?"
"Do not be in a rush. I am trying to think like an American," said Chiun, tugging at his wispy beard. "Now, if I were an American, what would I do in a situation like this?"
"Send out for pizza?"
"Do not jest, Remo. This is serious. I am trying to acclimate myself to this country."
"What's the point? This is our last assignment. After this, we're free and clear."
"That, no doubt, is the reason for your high spirits tonight."
"I feel like the world is my oyster," Remo said.
"Oyster, beware the crab," intoned Chiun, listening.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means we go up. I hear the buzz of voices above. We will find the American President of Vice there."
"Vice-President," Remo corrected.
"Possibly him too."
The Vice-President had fallen asleep in an overstuffed chair beside a four-poster bed, the latest poll results in his lap.
He awoke to a gentle tapping on his shoulder. "Huh? What?" he said mushily.
"Sorry to wake you up," a cool voice said.
Standing before him were two men-a white man and a little Oriental guy in a red suit and green tie that made him resemble one of Santa's helpers at a prom.
"Who? What?"
"He is not very articulate for a leader," said the Oriental. "Possibly we have the wrong person."
"Smith sent us," the white guy said. "You know who we mean when we say Smith?"
"You're here to kill me," said the Vice-President in horror.
"He knows, all right," the Caucasian muttered.
"No, O possible future ruler," said the Oriental. "We are here to see that no harm comes to you."
"Where are my bodyguards?"
"Sleeping," said the white man. "I didn't want them interrupting. By the way, I'm Remo and this is Chiun. We work for Smith, although that won't be the case if or when you're elected."
"That is still subject to discussion," Chiun interjected hastily.
"No, it's not," Remo said.
"Do not listen to him. He is lovesick for a woman he barely knows."
"I've known Mah-Li for a year now," Remo said. And the two of them leapt into an argument in some singsong language.
The Vice-President started to ease himself out of the chair. The white man, Remo, seeing him move, reached out a hand and touched him on the side of the neck. Open-mouthed, the Vice-President froze in position, half in and half out of the chair, while the two argued on, oblivious of his discomfort.
"And that's final," said Remo in English when the argument finally ran its course.
"You wish," retorted Chiun.
Remo turned back to the Vice-President.
"Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. It's like this. Chiun and I don't have any stake in your election or in CURE because we're going back to Korea soon. Smith asked us to protect you before we go. That's why we're here. But I thought I'd put in a good word for Smith while we're here. He's really a nice guy when you get to know him. And he's pretty good with the taxpayers' money. Tight-fisted, you know."
"But generous where it counts," added Chiun.
"We want you to know he's not behind the attack on your life, and to prove it and to prove how effective the operation is, we're going to stay with you until we're sure there won't be another attack on your life. That clear?"
The Vice-President tried to nod. He could not move. His feet tingled and he was sure they were falling asleep. "Oh, sorry," said Remo, reaching out to massage the throat nerve that sent the Vice-President collaps
ing into his seat. "How's that?"
"Sinanju?" the Vice-President asked huskily.
"You know about that too?" asked Chiun curiously.
"Yes. It was all in the letter."
"What letter told you about Sinanju?" demanded Chiun.
"The one signed Tulip."
Remo turned to Chiun. "Do you know any Tulip?"
"No. I would not have for a friend one who would call himself that. We will ask Smith. Possibly he knows this Tulip."
"Why don't you both go do that little thing?" the Vice-President suggested. "I would like to get some sleep, if you don't mind."
"Sure," said Remo. "We just wanted you to know we were on the job."
"Fine. Consider it written down in my diary."
"We'll be outside if you need us," said Remo, heading for the door. The Master of Sinanju followed him.
Remo paused in the doorway. "You won't forget what I said about Smith and the operation, will you?"
"Never," promised the Vice-President.
"Great," said Remo, giving the Vice-President an A-okay sign with his fingers.
When the door shut, the Vice-President looked for a telephone. He'd get help down here so fast those two would never know what happened. But he saw no telephone in the bedroom. Frantically he looked everywhere. In the side tables, by the window, even under the bed. Finally he realized there wasn't one.
Doffing his bathrobe, the Vice-President crawled into the bed and tried to sleep. Come morning, the Secret Service shift would be changed. Then those two would see what they were in for. And Smith would too. National security be damned. Dr. Harold W. Smith had overstepped himself this time and the Vice-President was going to see that man clapped in a federal cell if it was his last official act as Vice-President.
Chapter 11
Secret Service agent Orrin Snell knew how to read the street. He was trained to zero in on the subtle details that never registered on the ordinary person. The little things that were out of place or not quite right. A man walking with his hand hovering instead of hanging limp meant that that person carried a sidearm and was prepared to use it. A furtive walk meant a man who feared notice or pursuit. A car moving too slowly could mean anything, but one moving too fast could only mean trouble.
Agent Snell could hear trouble coming four blocks away. He knew it even before his walkie-talkie crackled the message.
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