Target of Opportunity td-98

by Warren Murphy

  The President replaced the red receiver. It had been a wild stab in the dark to contact Smith this way. He wondered if the man had died.

  As he returned to the Oval Office, he decided that the President who had set up CURE in the first place must have made provisions for the agency to continue in the event Smith passed on. Otherwise, without CURE, American democracy might pass from the world forever.

  The First lady was waiting in the Oval Office when the President reached it. She was wearing that frustrated impatient look of hers.

  "No word?" he asked.

  "None. And I'd like to know who Smith is and what Cure is."

  The President winced. When Smith had contacted him that last time, the E-mail address had been smith@cure.com. There was no such mailbox address, they discovered, and so no way to reply.

  "Some day you'll know."

  "When?"

  "Not when. If."

  "If what?" pressed the First Lady.

  "If," said the President, dropping heavily into the chair behind the desk where so many Presidents before him had toiled, "you ever become President yourself."

  "Don't think it couldn't happen," the First Lady flared.

  "Not for a moment," said the President, smiling.

  The First Lady relaxed slightly.

  "I want you to do something important for me," the President said.

  "What?"

  The President lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Fetch me a couple of things."

  The First Lady approached the executive desk and put one ear to the President's mouth.

  When the President explained his needs, the First Lady frowned, then blurted, "What do you need those for?"

  "Because," said the President, "I'm going jogging."

  "Are you insane?" the First Lady shrieked.

  "No, just scared out of my skin," admitted the President of the United States in no uncertain terms.

  Chapter 14

  At a pay phone on Virginia Avenue, Remo Williams phoned Harold W. Smith at Folcroft Sanitarium.

  "Smitty. Did you hear? The President's still alive."

  "Yes. It is a great relief."

  "Well, don't relax yet. Something weird's going on down here."

  "What is it? Where are you, Remo?"

  "D.C. I just got back from the White House."

  "You should be protecting the President."

  "Scratch that plan. I just pulled his fat out of the fire in front of his personal Secret Service guards. I've been made."

  "Pulled his fat out of the fire? What do you mean?"

  "Just as I was pulling up, he was stepping off Marine One. No sooner does he do that than the Secret Service starts to draw down on him."

  Horror made Smith's voice wobble. "His own agents?"

  "No, not the guys in the chopper. The ones patrolling the White House grounds. It looked like they were going to slaughter one another until I stepped in and grabbed the cat."

  "What cat?"

  "The First Cat. What's his name? Puss? Boots?"

  "Socks," said Smith.

  "Except it wasn't Socks, because Socks showed up later."

  "Why would the Secret Service be shooting at a stray cat?"

  "I don't think it was a stray. It was a dead ringer for the real Socks."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "If you ever looked Socks in the puss, you'd be sure. That is one ugly kitty cat."

  Smith made a strange noise, and when he got his throat cleared he asked, "Remo, please begin at the beginning."

  "Let me finish up my story before I go back to square one. I moved in and grabbed the cat. Let me tell you, it was strong. Or thought it was. The agents swore it was rabid. But I don't think it was. It was just an upset cat. Once I defused the situation, everything seemed to get back to normal. I flashed my Secret Service ID and, while the pieces were being picked up, I got out of there."

  Smith said nothing for a long time.

  "The Secret Service is extremely well trained," he mused.

  "Not these guys. They were having conniption fits over a stray cat."

  "It is entirely too coincidental that a cat exactly resembling Socks should appear on the White House grounds creating such a disturbance."

  "I hate it when you're right," Remo said glumly.

  "Remo, Chiun should be arriving at Washington National any minute now. Rendezvous with him, then call me."

  "What are you going to do in the meantime?" wondered Remo.

  "Dedicate my computers to the problem. Something is going on, and there is insufficient information to make out what."

  "While you're at it," said Remo, "don't forget to keep looking for my parents." He was about to hang up when an unexpected sight came trotting around the corner on fourteen legs.

  It was the President of the United States, jogging amid a loose circle of very white-faced Secret Service agents. Everyone was wearing running shorts and sweats.

  Except the President. He was wearing a T-shirt too thin to protect him from the late-December chill, mild as it was. And a green baseball cap.

  Remo read the legend on the cap and, as the President approached, his pasty legs jiggling like Jell-O with each step, he got a glimpse of the front of the T-shirt.

  Hastily he turned his face away from the sweeping sunglass lenses of the Secret Service and said, "Smitty, you won't believe this, but the President just jogged by."

  "After two assassination attempts?"

  "Well, I think the President is trying to reach out to you."

  "Why do you say that?" asked Smith.

  "The hot line to the White House still down?"

  "Yes. I've been unable to locate the break in the line."

  "If you have a TV at hand, turn it on. The news guys up the block look excited enough to be broadcasting this live. They've set up a roadblock to ask the President the usual dippy questions."

  "One moment, Remo."

  AT HIS DESK at Folcroft, Harold W. Smith tapped a sequence on his computer keyboard. Instantly the amber glow of his computer screen went black as it shifted to receiving broadcast-quality TV signals.

  Sure enough, the networks were broadcasting live footage of the Presidential jog.

  "This is Fred Flowers," a reporter was saying, "coming to you live where the President of the United States, not two hours after an attempt on his life and a mysterious altercation among the Secret Service agents on the South Lawn, is calmly jogging down Constitution Avenue."

  The camera zoomed in on the President's puffy face. It looked like a sponge in water. His eyes were squeezed almost shut. He did not look calm. Neither did his agents, who looked, if anything, like men marching through an unmarked minefield.

  The long onyx Presidential Lincoln Continental limousine followed at an uneasy crawl.

  As the President trotted up to the waiting press ambush, questions were called out.

  In response, the President turned his head and gave a forced smile. To the consternation of his bodyguards, he suddenly put on speed, pulling ahead of them.

  Then he turned his jogging body toward the camera and waved broadly.

  Harold W. Smith read his last name on the President's thin T-shirt front and again stitched in white lettering on the front of the green baseball cap.

  Smith leaned down to read the legend better, but he could not. The screen was too small.

  He clapped the phone receiver to his face and asked, "Remo, what is that written on the President?"

  "T-shirt or cap?" asked Remo.

  "Both."

  "The cap says Eat Granny Smith Apples, and the T-shirt says Smith College."

  "Smith College is a women's college," Smith said tartly.

  "And from the way he's eyeing that Burger Triumph hungrily," Remo said, "I don't think he's that big a fan of Granny Smith apples, either."

  "He is trying to contact me," said Smith.

  "Is that a good idea? Last time you talked to him, he was threatening to shut down the organization."
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  "I have no choice," Smith said instantly. "This is an unmistakable signal that the President wishes to meet with me."

  "How are you going to arrange that?"

  "I am doing it right now," said Harold Smith.

  "How?"

  "By electronic mail," explained Smith.

  "I don't hear any clicking of keys."

  "My new keyboard is keyless," reminded Smith.

  "Oh, right," said Remo, watching the President jog on past. The more Remo had seen him jog on TV, the more pounds the Chief Executive seemed to gain. A moment later Remo saw the explanation. A Secret Service agent came jogging out of the Burger Triumph carrying a steaming cardboard container of jumbo fries. He handed it off to the President, who munched hungrily as he ran.

  "I have just suggested that the President see a movie," Smith was saying.

  "Tell him to skip the popcorn," grunted Remo.

  "Excuse me."

  "Never mind. Any particular movie?"

  "Yes. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. "

  "I don't think that's playing anymore," said Remo.

  "It will play tonight," Smith said. "In the White House theater. And I expect to see it with him."

  "How're you going to get in?"

  "You and Chiun are going to get me in," said Harold Smith in a decisive tone of voice. "When you meet Chiun, rent a room at the Watergate Hotel. I will call you."

  "You don't want us to meet you at the airport?"

  "Absolutely not. Once we are in Washington, we will have to be exceedingly careful of our conversations, whether by phone or in person. The Secret Service, FBI and CIA are all going to be on the highest state of alert, eavesdropping on phone conversations and searching hotels for suspicious persons. Under no circumstances attract attention to yourself."

  "Who, me?" said Remo.

  "I was thinking of the Master of Sinanju," said Smith.

  "Me, too," said Remo.

  "One more item," said Smith.

  "Yeah?"

  "Buy yourself a good conservative suit and matching pair of sunglasses."

  Before Remo could ask why, Harold Smith had disconnected.

  Chapter 15

  The director of the Secret Service showed up at the West Gate to the White House, briefcase in one hand, personal faxphone in the other.

  A uniformed Secret Service guard confiscated both and ran the metal-detecting batons up and down his stiff body anyway.

  "Are you crazy! Do you know who I am?"

  "Orders from the Man, sir."

  The director of the Secret Service turned as red as a boiler about to explode but held his tongue.

  "You may enter, sir."

  "First get me the President on the line."

  "I'm sorry, sir. Big Mac has just left Crown."

  "I was not told this."

  "It was a sudden decision."

  "Where did he go, Camp David?"

  "No, sir. He's just gone for a jog"

  "A jog! In the middle of all this?"

  The gate guard said nothing.

  "I want radio silence from this moment on," the director snapped.

  "Sir?"

  The director indicated the press microwave vans parked outside the White House with a toss of his gray head.

  "The Grim Ghouls are probably prowling our band even as we speak."

  "Yes sir."

  The director was escorted to the Secret Service command post in the basement of the West Wing and repeated the order to the assistant chief of the White House detail, Jack Murtha.

  Belt radios were immediately shut off.

  "What's this about Big Mac going for a jog?" the director wanted to know.

  Murtha said, "It's true, sir. We pleaded with him to reconsider, but he was insistent."

  "He took his detail with him?"

  "Of course, sir."

  The director of the Secret Service heaved a slow, relaxed sigh. At least the President still trusted his personal guard.

  "What's the latest from Boston?" he demanded.

  "Another fax coming in now."

  "What have we got so far?"

  Jack Murtha went pale as a pear. "Morgue photos on the shooter and the subject who took him out."

  "Let me see."

  The photos were handed over.

  "Damn, if that doesn't look like Oswald," the director said as agents gathered around him.

  "If that's Oswald, who's buried in his grave?"

  "And this guy does kinda resemble Ruby," an agent pointed out.

  "Ruby was older," the director said. "If the shooter is Oswald plus thirty years, why is this other guy younger than Ruby?"

  "Plastic surgery?" someone piped up.

  "No theories. I want facts. We'll get into theories later."

  "Sir, this fax is from the Boston medical examiner. A preliminary examination of the body reveals a mastoid scar and evidence of wrist slashing in the not-recent past."

  "Damn! Oswald had scars like those."

  "This can't be Oswald, can it?"

  "I hope to God it's not," said the director, plugging his own faxphone in. "But let's get Oswald's prints out of storage and make sure."

  "Which Oswald?"

  "Both!" snapped the director. He dialed the local phone company and said, "This is the Secret Service. Reroute all calls from 555-6734 to this line."

  The moment he hung up, the faxes began coming up. He lifted them off the tray as fast as they came, reading them with a face growing loose with the succession of shocks.

  "Damn. Damn. Damn."

  The other agents looked up expectantly.

  "According to this, the serial number of that Mannlicher-Carcano is identical to the one Oswald used on Kennedy."

  The other agents looked so blank they might have fainted on their feet.

  The director looked up. "Anybody know where that damn gun ended up?"

  "National archives."

  "Check this out."

  A hasty call later, Jack Murtha was saying, "Are you sure? Are you absolutely positively certain it's still there? Well, go look!"

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "National archives say the rifle is still there, but they're looking anyway."

  "God help them if they let that goddamn rifle out of their hands," the director said flatly.

  A moment later word came back. "Director, they swear up and down the rifle is still under lock and key."

  "Send a man over to double-check? No, do it yourself. Call me the instant you verify this and then call Boston to double-check their serial number. Damn! There can't be two rifles with the same serial number."

  "What if there are?"

  "If there are, we not only have a mess on our hands, but we may have to reopen the Kennedy hit, as well."

  Later the phone rang, and a uniformed Secret Service agent reported, "Big Mac is back at Crown. Repeat, Big Mac is back at Crown."

  "Stop talking like that. This is the telephone."

  "Sorry, sir. Habit."

  "Get word to the Man I'm on station."

  "Roger. I mean, at once, sir."

  Less than a minute later the telephone rang, and the President's breathlessly hoarse voice was saying, "See me in the Oval Office."

  When he reached the Oval Office door, the director found the way blocked by three special agents instead of the usual one.

  "Good thinking," he said.

  "Identify yourself, sir," the middle agent said stiffly.

  "You know who I am. Let me pass."

  "President's orders, sir. Sorry."

  "I'm hearing that word a lot," the director said, snapping out his ID.

  "No sudden movements if you please," an agent cautioned.

  "I hate the word sorry. Sorry means failure. It says, 'I do my job sloppily.'"

  "Yes, sir."

  When his ID was inspected and approved by all three agents, the door was opened and the director was ushered in. Once it was shut, he crossed the blue rug, saying, "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Pres
ident. I want you to know that I will leave no turn unstoned- er. . . stone unturned-to get to the bottom of the fiasco in the ranks this afternoon."

  The President waved him to a chair.

  The director sat. His eyes fell on the President's T-shirt.

  "Isn't Smith a women's college, Mr. President?"

  "Borrowed my wife's T-shirt," the President said tightly.

  "Didn't she go to Wellesley?"

  "Never mind," the President said testily. "I want to hear about Boston."

  The director's face fell. "We're still developing our Intelligence."

  "Tell me what you have so far."

  "It's very confusing. It really should be digested by professional analysts before you look at it. Certain facts could be misleading. Very."

  "I don't give a rip. I want to hear what you have. You have been investigating this, haven't you?"

  "Absolutely," the director said, clearing his throat. He did it three times before the Presidential glare forced him to cough up.

  "We have the shooter."

  "Alive or dead?"

  "Dead."

  "Who is he?"

  "His driver's license says he's Alek James Hidell." The President made a face. "Seems to me I've heard that name before."

  The director of the Secret Service thought fast. "I was thinking that myself. We suspect it's not his real name. But we're not sure," he added quickly. "Anything is possible. Anything."

  "Accomplices?"

  "A man whose identity we have not yet determined killed him."

  "Christ! This sounds like Jack Ruby."

  "Yes," the director of the Secret Service said in a sincere voice, "it sounds very much like Ruby. Yes, indeed."

  "So we have to assume a conspiracy?"

  "I would not assume anything at this point. We are running the man's prints and should have something shortly."

  "Is there anything else I should know?" the President asked.

  "I have a great many loose facts, but again I caution you against trying to make a clear picture out of disconnected pieces of the jigsaw."

  "Is there a motive? Any indications of confederates or claims of responsibility?"

  "No claims. But it's just a matter of hours. Once details get out, the usual terroristic cells and fringe political splinter groups will all be claiming credit. And, of course, we have to look out for the copycat factor-"