Remo turned from the rocking van, his eyes flat. "This an example of the new you?" he asked dryly.
"Do not worry, Remo," Chiun assured him. "Deep down, I am still the same person I always was."
Spinning on his heel, the old man marched toward the main entrance.
"That's what worries me," Remo muttered.
He trailed the Master of Sinanju through the throng of press to the hospital.
Chapter 9
According to Smith, the former President was in a private east-wing suite on the eighth floor. Remo intended to ride the elevator up to eight, but the car had other plans. It stopped on the sixth floor. The doors slid open on the solemn face of a muscular Secret Service agent. A thin white cord ran from jacket to ear.
"I'm sorry, but you can't go any higher," the agent insisted.
"Sure, I can," Remo said.
He pressed the button for the eighth floor, and the doors began to slide shut. The Secret Service agent pushed them back open.
"The eighth floor has been evacuated."
"But Aunt Iggy's expecting us," Remo informed him.
"There's been an emergency," the agent explained. "A gas leak."
"Sounds like Aunt Iggy." Remo nodded to Chiun.
"Stop being stupid," Chiun said. He jabbed a nail-into the eighth-floor button. The doors slid silently shut ...and promptly opened once more.
"The elevators will not function above this level," the agent informed them, "Because of the gas leak, floors seven through ten have been completely evacuated. If you're looking for a patient, I'd advise you to try the main desk."
Remo shook his head. "Nothing's ever easy," he mumbled. "And next time, I'd suggest the brain trust at Treasury come up with a better cover story. If the Secret Service is worried about gas leaks, you could've stayed in Washington. After his regular six Big Mac breakfast, the guy in the White House has it coming out both ends."
At Remo's mention of the Secret Service, the agent was instantly alert. A hand darted beneath his jacket.
Before the man even touched the butt of his automatic, Remo's own hand flew forward. He pinched a spot at the agent's elbow, locking the man's arm in place.
Desperate, the Secret Service man clamped on the wrist microphone in his other hand. It wasn't there. Trailing wires, the unit had been plucked from his belt. The earpiece came loose with a loud pop. When the agent glanced up, Chiun was examining the radiomicrophone.
"Are you able to hear The Jack Benny Program on this device?" he asked.
"You men are in deep trouble," the Secret Service agent threatened in reply. He yanked at his frozen arm. It wouldn't budge.
"No, Little Father," Remo supplied.
"A shame," Chiun said, shaking his head. "I used to listen to his program many years ago in Sinanju. He was quite amusing. Although Rochester was the true star."
With a blur of tapered fingers, he smashed the entire radio transceiver to shards.
"There's no way out," the agent warned. "Give it up."
"In a sec," Remo promised. "Questions first." As the Secret Service agent complained, Remo used his elbow grip to bounce the man into a nearby room. Two vacant beds with crisp white sheets were pushed against the wall.
"Okay, what's the deal?" he demanded after the Master of Sinanju closed the door behind them. "The guy bumped his head. I'm assuming you aren't all here to deliver aspirin."
The agent refused to reply. Screwing his mouth tightly shut, he leveled his eyes on the closed door. Remo pinched the agent's elbow.
Bolts of white-hot fiery acid burst from the joint, exploding out into his extremities. He gasped in pain.
"The old President was kidnapped," the man blurted.
Remo's stomach tightened. "Kidnapped? When?"
"Hours ago. Early morning." The agent's eyes were watering.
Remo glanced at the Master of Sinanju. "Looks like this is bigger than we thought," he said grimly.
"Why is that?" Chiun sniffed. "If one of your rulers is missing, vote yourselves another. Every time I turn around, you people are anointing a new one. What this nation needs is the stability only a lifelong despot can bring."
Remo wished he could share the old Korean's cavalier attitude. He turned his attention back to the Secret Service man. "Any leads?" he pressed, squeezing tighter.
"None that I'd be privy to." The agent winced. "The President's detail was shot. Lot of other people, too. Doctors, nurses. No witnesses. They got away scot free."
Remo's brow was dark. "What about all those ditzes out front with cameras?"
"Kidnappers used a back exit. No press there."
"Security cameras?"
"I don't know." The agent was pleading by now. He had given up everything he knew. Wordlessly, Remo tapped a single finger dead center in the man's forehead. The Secret Service agent stiffened as if in shock, then the air slipped from him and he slumped forward. Remo dumped the unconscious agent onto one of the empty beds.
"So much for the simple assignment," he groused as he flung a blanket over the man.
"Do not complain to me," the Master of Sinanju warned, folding his arms. "You were never called Chinese in a major film franchise. Everything else pales in comparison."
"I thought we weren't talking about that," Remo said, only half listening. He was trying to think what their next move should be. "And this is much worse. Smith said the old President remembered all about us."
"Good," Chiun retorted with a satisfied nod. "Let the aged one sing our praises from the rooftops of the nation he once led. Maybe I will finally get some proper recognition."
"Smitty'd love that," Remo grumbled. "Speaking of which, I'd better call him. He's gonna want to know about this if he hasn't already heard."
Cruel face etched in lines of deep concern, Remo reached for the room phone.
HAROLD SMITH HAD LEARNED Of the former President's kidnapping an hour earlier. Although the news had not yet filtered out to the mainstream press, it was spreading like wildfire through official government channels. It was only a matter of time before the public learned of the abduction.
A blue bottle of antacid sat on Smith's desktop. He had opened the bottle three times in the past sixty minutes. Given the nature of the crisis, there was no sense putting it away.
Each new report Smith read added to the growing tidal wave of nausea welling up within him. Someone possessed with knowledge of CURE was in the hands of an unknown force.
The kidnappers were vicious and ruthless. They had killed more than twenty people in their murderous route from the hospital subbasement parking area to the ex-President's eighth-floor room.
Their identity was still a mystery.
Smith's mind reeled as he considered the possible suspects. As a result of this President's very public convictions, the list of potential enemies was vast.
The massive mainframes hidden behind a secret wall in the sanitarium's basement had been working overtime since the start of the crisis. Dubbed the Folcroft Four by Smith in a rare display of creativity, the computers had compiled a detailed list of the most likely suspects.
Smith had always found organization to be the key to every successful operation. To this end, he had initiated a program that divided the huge list into two separate sections: homegrown threats and those from abroad.
It was a coin toss to decide which category of potential culprits he should begin sifting through first. In the end, Smith decided to go with those at home, for the simple fact that the former President was kidnapped while on American soil. He would expand the search as circumstances dictated.
Alone in his drab office, Smith lowered his hands to the special capacitor keyboard buried beneath the lip of his gleaming black desk. Casting a final, longing glance at his antacid bottle, he began to sift through page after electronic page of likely suspects. He had barely gone over a dozen names when the familiar jangle of the blue contact phone cut through the tomblike silence of his office.
Behind his desk, Smit
h froze.
The ex-President had called on that very phone the night before. It was possible that this was him once more. This time in the hands of an unknown enemy.
Realizing that the ringing phone might be sounding the death knell of both himself and the organization he led, Harold W. Smith wrapped an arthritic hand around the receiver: With great deliberateness, he answered it. Blood pounded in his ear.
"Yes," he said, his voice totally devoid of any inflection.
"The President's been kidnapped."
At the sound of Remo's voice, Smith released a mouthful of bile-scented air. He hadn't even realized he had been holding his breath.
"I have heard," Smith said. He spoke in precise, measured tones. "You and your associate should return to home base at once."
Remo sounded puzzled. "My associate? You mean Chiun?"
"Please, no names!" Smith insisted sharply.
"Cheez, what's wrong with you, Smitty? Somebody spike your Maatox?"
The CURE director's heart did a somersault at the mention of his own name. "I am sorry, sir, you have the wrong number," Smith spluttered, lamely covering. Fumbling, he quickly hung up the phone.
It rang within three seconds. Smith did his best to ignore it.
Remo obviously didn't appreciate the gravity of this situation. If the former President had given away even a small bit of information to his captors-Folcroft, Sinanju, Smith-the organization could already be compromised. Right now, maintaining simple security protocols was more important than ever.
As the phone continued to squawk unanswered at his elbow, Smith attempted to concentrate on his work. Remo's persistence was greater than he'd expected. After a full five minutes of solid ringing, the blue phone finally fell silent. Smith breathed a sigh of quiet relief.
Head swimming with concerns, he threw himself back into his work. Smith had only time to scan a dozen or so names of potential kidnappers when there came a timid knock at his closed office door.
He lifted his hands from the keyboard. The amber keys faded to black. The special computer monitor beneath the surface of the desk was angled so that only the person seated behind it could see it. Confident that everything was in order, he lifted his head to the door.
"Come in."
Eileen Mikulka, Smith's secretary for the past twenty years, sheepishly rapped a single knuckle against the heavy door even as she pushed it open.
"I'm so sorry, Dr. Smith," the matronly woman apologized. "I know how you hate to be disturbed while you're working."
"What is it?" Smith asked, hurrying her along. Her lopsided smile was uncertain.
"Your friend Mr. Remo is on the phone," she explained. "He says that the fate of the nation is in your hands." She gave a little apologetic shrug.
By colossal effort, Smith fought down any hint of a reaction. "Put him through," he said levelly. Nodding, Mrs. Mikulka backed from the room. When the primary Folcroft line sounded, Smith depressed the blinking light and picked up the phone. "Use the other line," he ordered. He promptly hung up the phone.
This time when the blue contact phone rang, Smith answered it.
"You are behaving recklessly," the CURE director accused.
"Relax," Remo replied. "Your secretary's clueless. And you're acting paranoid."
Smith leaned an elbow against his onyx desk, cradling his patrician nose between thumb and forefinger. His rimless glasses bit into the bridge. "If we must have this conversation, we will make it brief," he said wearily.
"Fine with me. Why do you want me and-" Remo caught himself "-my associate to come back there?"
"It would be best during the current situation."
"Don't you want us to try to find you-know-who?"
"Possibly," Smith suggested. "Eventually. But as I understand it, there are no leads at present. It would be unwise for you to stay in the vicinity, given the knowledge that he has recently displayed."
"You think he might finger me to someone?"
"It is a possibility."
"No biggie," Remo said. "We can take care of anyone who comes our way."
"We do not know that," Smith replied. "This is a deadly serious situation, and we are dealing with a faceless enemy."
"You really think this is that big a deal?" Remo asked. "Aren't there about twenty ex-Presidents kicking around right now? Who's going to miss one?"
"This conversation is getting too specific," Smith cautioned. "Any more so and I will terminate it."
"Okay, okay," Remo relented. "Here's what I'll agree to. The two of us will do a little snooping on this end. If we come up empty, we'll hightail it back home."
"That is not wise," Smith stressed. He was thinking of all the FBI and Secret Service people already on the scene-not to mention the local police and national press who would swarm into the Los Angeles area once the story broke.
"Call me unwise," Remo said. "'Cause that's what we're doing. Toodles."
As the dial tone hummed in his ear, Smith released the grip on his nose. Adjusting his glasses, he slowly hung up the blue phone. If neither he nor Remo was successful in their respective efforts, it might be the last time he used the special contact phone.
His head had begun to throb.
Smith took two baby aspirins from a childproof bottle stored in his left hand drawer. He washed them down with a healthy swig of antacid.
Forcing the grimmest of scenarios from his orderly mind, Harold Smith focused his attention back on his computer. With a steely resolve, he threw himself into his work.
Chapter 10
The Radiant Grappler II was a fishing boat that had never fished. Designed and constructed by a French shipbuilding company, the high-tech vessel was promoted as the inevitable future of all commercial firms that plumbed the depths of the sea for their fortune. The ship was truly one of a kind. Unknown to its builders, it would remain such.
Although it had planned to reap great rewards on its new boat, the company that built it hadn't counted on the ensuing protests. On the day it was unveiled, a collection of environmental groups held a rally at the shipyard gates, denouncing the vessel, as well as the wholesale destruction of ocean life it represented.
They were torpedoed before they even set sail. As a result of waging its losing battle with the rabid environmental groups in the French press, the shipbuilding company found itself without a single buyer. It was a marketing disaster. Already millions of francs in debt, the company was forced to come to a final, reluctant decision. It declared bankruptcy. When the company's assets were sold off at auction, first in line with a bloated checkbook were agents for Earthpeace, the primary environmental group responsible for putting the company out of business.
The Radiant Grappler II was snatched up as the Earthpeace flagship, a replacement for another, ill-fated ship of the same name.
The Grappler was both functional and ceremonial. The activists could sail to environmental crisis points and-thanks to the way in which they'd acquired the vessel-gloat along the way.
The ship was large and menacing. At just under 450 feet long, it weighed nearly twenty thousand tons. Its hundred-thousand-horsepower engine propelled it through ocean waves at speeds in excess of sixty knots. It didn't so much break through the swells as crush them beneath its merciless hull. It was an awesome, frightening spectacle to behold.
Anyone viewing the Grappler now, however, would see an entirely different, much more helpless image.
At the moment, the ship's mighty engines idled softly. The ship was stationary between the Miraflores Locks on the Pacific side of the Panama Canal.
The locks outside the ship had already been sealed. Once the Grappler was in place, water was allowed to flood into the artificially created basin. With a steady movement that was so gradual it was nearly imperceptible, the ship rose slowly above the level of the ocean it had just left.
Inside the rusty hold of the huge vessel, two Earthpeace activists listened to the creak of metal as the ship began to reach equilibrium with the w
ater level of Miraflores Lake.
"Yo, Jerry, dude. You know how long this'll take?" the first asked.
His torn jeans and flannel shirt looked as if he'd mugged them off a scarecrow. Although his buttondown Madison Avenue, Rotary Club-loving parents had named him Ralph, he liked to be called Bright Sunshiny Ralph.
"This part, or the whole trip?" Jerry asked absently.
Like his companion, Jerry Glover was dressed in rags that seemed held together by grime and stink. Unlike Ralph, Jerry was preoccupied. Bent at the waist, he was peering through the iron bars of a zoo transport cage.
The vast hold around them was otherwise bare. Rats scurried and squeaked in distant shadows. "Through the canal," Sunshiny Ralph said.
"Seven hours," Jerry replied.
Sunshiny didn't seem thrilled at the prospect of being stuck in the canal so long. Standing beside Jerry, he wrapped weak arms around his own chest, hugging himself the same way women used to during the Summer of Love. It had been a long time since a female had touched him that way. Such caresses had stopped around the same time his hairline and belly began their middle-age race in opposite directions.
"I feel I'm, like, trapped, man," he complained.
"Yeah, but how does he feel?" Jerry grinned, nodding to the cage.
Sunshiny glanced through the barred door.
In the shadows at the rear of the sturdy box, a familiar figure slept. The infamous face was visible in silhouette. Straw hung from steel-gray hair.
When he looked at Jerry, Sunshiny's face was filled with contempt. "He don't feel nuthin'. What's wrong with you?"
He seemed disgusted at Jerry for ascribing human emotions to their prisoner.
"I know that," Jerry said, backpedaling rapidly. "But if he could feel? Dude, imagine how he'd feel."
Sunshiny wouldn't hear it. "You're anthraxpromotizing," he insisted.
"Huh?"
"You know. It's when you give animals, like, human characteristics."
Jerry took a horrified step back. "I'd never do that!" he exclaimed. "Why would I want animals to behave like humans? Humans make, like, H-bombs and nuclear war and stuff. If we could only learn from animals, Earth would be, like, a real cool place to live. And pot'd be legal."
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