"The same evil that convinced a simple tabby cat that it was a tiger," said Chiun.
"I would like to examine that cat," said Smith.
The cat was brought over from the FBI testing lab in a carrier cage. It had already begun to stiffen.
"I can't get over how much that looks like Socks," the President said glumly.
"Did I mention we found evidence that the cat was dyed to match Socks's markings?" the director asked casually.
"No, you did not," the President said tightly.
"Actually it was the FBI forensics lab that uncovered it," the director added hastily. "We have so much stuff coming in here, we're just shipping it right on over to the Fantasy Factory for analysis."
"Fantasy Factory?" asked the President.
"Secret Service Intelligence Division. They're the best, Mr. President. They spitball every conceivable scenario. If sense can be made of all these events, they'll do it."
Special Agent Smith had withdrawn the dead cat from the carrier cage and was going through its fur with his fingers. Near the top of the head where the fur was black, he paused, separating the stiffening hairs.
"Find something, Smith?" asked the President.
"A scar. Perfectly circular."
Everyone gathered around to see. It was dime-sized patch of whitish scar tissue.
"Looks surgical," muttered Remo.
"The FBI missed this," said Smith.
"Shame on them," the director said smugly.
Smith looked up. "Where is the cat's collar?"
"FBI must still have it"
"It should be examined."
"I'm sure that's being done right now," the director said, rocking on his heels. So far, this was going smoothly. The FBI was catching most of the heat.
"And Gila Gingold's hair should be examined for a surgical mark such as this," said Smith.
"What?"
"If such a mark is found, it will be incontrovertible evidence of a conspiracy to assassinate the President."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. We have no evidence of any such conspiracy. Not in Boston. Not in Washington. At least, not officially."
"What do you mean by not officially?" the President demanded.
The director lost his composure. "I mean, sir, simply that there are Secret Service procedures we follow, and crying wolf isn't part one of them. And I'm getting tired of this dried-up retirement case barging into my investigation, Dallas experience or not."
"Do not speak to me that way," warned the tiny Asian Chiun.
"I was referring to Smith."
"And do not speak to Smith that way," said Chiun.
The director towered over the little Asian. "Who made you cock of the walk?"
"The Master before me."
Before the director could say anything further, the President noticed the TV set. It had been left on and was tuned into a broadcast channel. Congressman Gila Gingold's brick red face filled the screen. There was a chyron in one corner of the screen. It said Live.
"What's he doing on the air live?" the President blurted.
"What's he doing out of St. Elizabeth's?" the director sputtered.
An agent turned up the sound.
". . . demand that the White House officially apologize for floating the obviously untrue story of my institutionalization. A story put out in the obvious and blatant attempt to discredit me."
The camera zoomed past Gila Gingold to a man sprawled on a hospital bed, sleeping on his stomach.
"Which is which?" asked the President.
"The one on his stomach is the gravel worm," said Chiun. "He thinks he is sunning himself."
The camera returned to Gila Gingold's glowering face, and Pepsie Dobbins's disembodied voice asked, "Congressman, why do you suppose the White House has led the general public to believe you attacked the President tonight?"
"Obviously my successful efforts to lead the charge against their universal health-care program in Congress is the chief motivation here."
"And who specifically?"
"I won't name names-except to point out that everyone knows the First Lady is point man on health care."
"Thank you, Congressman Gingold."
Pepsie Dobbins turned to the camera and all but blocked the view of Congressman Gila Gingold.
"Tonight all Washington wonders if the fight over universal health care has reached a new low in political brawling or broken out into open warfare."
An off-screen anchor's voiced asked, "Pepsie, first of all welcome back to ANC News."
"Thank you."
"Secondly, what can you add to the Boston angle to this story?"
"This is no Boston angle," the Secret Service director sputtered.
Then Pepsie Dobbins spoke the words that made the room spin around the Secret Service director's head.
"I have this from a source within the Secret Service itself. The rifle used in the attempt on the President's life tonight was a Mannlicher-Carcano 6.5-caliber military rifle, serial number C2766. This is the same rifle used to assassinate President Kennedy in Dallas, Texas, more than thirty years ago."
"Pepsie, this is stunning. What does it mean?"
"It means," said Pepsie Dobbins, her tomcat eyes bright, "that I may be the next Steinway. Or Steinward. You know."
"I mean," the anchor persisted, "what does this mean to the story?"
"That there is an open conspiracy to kill the President and it has roots that go back eight administrations."
In the White House Secret Service command post, all heads turned toward the director, and all eyes locked with his. They were not happy eyes. The director sympathized. He imagined his own eyes were looking extremely unhappy right about now.
An incoming fax announced itself with a strident beeping, and the director's heart all but stopped as Smith casually reached over to claim it.
"According to this," he announced, "the FBI has a positive fingerprint match for the man who tried to shoot the President."
Everyone stopped breathing for a moment.
"The prints are those of Lee Harvey Oswald."
Chapter 21
"Incredible," said Harold W. Smith as Remo handed another still-warm fax to him.
It was 3:00 a.m. in the Secret Service command post of the White House. For over four hours Smith had been sifting through the raw data from Boston, from St. Elizabeth's and other focal points of the investigation.
"Have you figured it out?" asked the President of the United States.
"Not by any means," admitted Smith.
Remo and Chiun lounged by the door. Whenever someone knocked, they told them to go away.
"This is assistant detail chief Murtha," a nervous voice asked. "The director wants to know if you're finished with the room yet."
"It is not over till the First Lady sings," said Chiun.
"You mean the fat lady sings," corrected Remo.
Chiun shrugged as if the distinction were utterly unimportant.
"Go away," said the President.
Harold Smith leaned back in his chair. Removing his rimless glasses, he rubbed red-rimmed gray eyes. His face was three shades grayer than normal, an indication of his extreme fatigue.
"Mr. President," he began, "I can only tell you what a collation of these reports suggests."
"I'm listening," said the President.
"The man claiming to be Alek James Hidell bears body scars identical to those on the body of Lee Harvey Oswald. His fingerprints also match those on file for Oswald. His rifle is identical to Oswald's weapon."
"Then Oswald tried to kill me?"
"Not necessarily. The rifle is identical, but it is a replica. The actual Oswald rifle is still with the national archives, where it has been since the 1960s. This suggests that the assassin may also have been a replica."
"What if it was the real Oswald, or the real Hidell?"
"Remotely possible, sir. But consider. Every human element of this bizarre web of events has been a replica.
A replica Oswald. A replica Gingold. Even a replica Socks the cat."
"Then the same people that killed Kennedy aren't out to get me?"
"It's too early to say so with confidence. But consider, while this Hidell seems to have aged as much as the real Oswald would, his killer, the Jack Ruby replica the Boston office has identified as a bartender named Bud Coggins, is younger than Ruby was in 1963."
"I don't follow your thinking," the President said slowly.
"The Ruby replica-Coggins-was seen driving to the University of Massachusetts wearing a virtual-reality headset. He was wearing it when he shot Hidell. The Boston office reports that a miniature camera mounted on the helmet actually transmitted whatever the man was looking at-or would have been looking at if the helmet hadn't been blocking his vision-to the so-called eyephones in the helmet. In other words, he was seeing reality, but thought he was in virtual reality."
"Sounds like hooey to me," said the President.
"On the contrary, it was very clever. There was a letter of invitation found in the dead man's pocket inviting him to an exclusive virtual-reality game demonstration. No return address. Just a telephone number. He obviously called this number and was given the helmet and the van found in the UMass parking garage. The name of the company was Jaunt Systems. There is no such company on record, Mr. President. And the telephone number is a blind cellular number."
"I'm still not sure I follow."
"According to the invitation, the name of the game Bud Coggins thought he was playing was Ruby."
"My God!"
"Bud Coggins was a dupe. A well-known player of electronic games, no family, few friends, he was tricked into covering up the trail back to the assassination conspirators by gunning down Alek James Hidell, chosen as much for his game skill as his resemblance to Jack Ruby. Had there been an older Ruby who could have done the job, no doubt that one would have been contacted instead. But Bud Coggins had the greatest chance of success."
"But he gunned down several crack Secret Service agents."
"He thought he was playing a game. That and his superior reflexes gave him an edge the Secret Service did not have. They could not shoot unless they were certain of their target. Coggins shot first and asked no questions. Thinking he was in a game, there was no lethal penalty for minor failures encountered along the way."
The President digested this in silence.
"We now know that the replica Gila Gingold was found to have a surgical scar-a burr hole-in his head identical to the replica Socks the cat. That links those two incidents, but not the Boston shooting. Nevertheless, I believe they are linked."
"Linked how?"
"By the clever employment of replicas."
"Makes sense," said Remo.
"But who is trying to get me?"
"I submit to you, Mr. President, that none of these attempts were serious."
"What!"
"This is a well-planned and orchestrated operation. If we can call it that. Yet anyone willing to research Secret Service procedure-and I submit the mastermind behind this has done his homework-would know that you never step out of the Presidential limousine first, but only after a special agent has. Further, the likelihood of the replica Socks getting to you was not high. And the replica Gingold likewise was unlikely to cause you fatal injury."
"You mean no one's actually trying to kill me?"
"No one is trying to kill you yet. They are certainly trying to frighten you or discredit you."
"But who?"
"The only clue, and it has obviously been planted, was found on the shell casing of the bullet that killed Special Agent Crandall."
"Crandall?"
"The man who took the bullet for you in Boston."
"That's the first time I've heard his name," the President said slowly.
Harold Smith picked a Lucite container from the desktop and handed it to the President. "Examine the initials on the ejected shell," he suggested.
The President tilted the box until the brass casing rolled the scratched letters into view. "RX?" he muttered. "Who is RX?"
"The initials mean nothing to you?"
"No."
"Perhaps they are not initials," mused Smith.
"What could they be?"
"On the face of it, RX is shorthand for prescription."
The President looked odd. "The medical community?"
"A warning from someone wishing you to think they are the medical community. Consider, Mr. President. You were in Boston at the John F. Kennedy Library to talk about health care when the first attempt was made. The shell casing was left at the sniper's perch deliberately, along with the rifle. You are a great admirer of President Kennedy. It is very clear that a great deal of money and effort has gone into sending you a message."
"Back off health care, or join Kennedy in Arlington National Cemetery?" ventured the President.
"That is how I interpret it, Mr. President."
"Well, I'm not backing off."
"I do not expect you to. But you must realize that the mind behind these outrageous attacks may be prepared to escalate his tactics."
"Escalate to what? He's already tried to kill me three times."
"Escalate to the point of succeeding," said Harold Smith.
The President swallowed.
Someone began pounding on the door, and a shrill female voice demanded, "What's going on in there? So help me, if you're with another woman, you'll get more than a lamp thrown at you this time."
"Coming dear," said the President, rising to go.
"It is over," intoned Chiun.
"Huh?" said Remo.
"The First Lady has sung."
Chapter 22
In the dead of night in Pepsie Dobbins's Georgetown town house, the telephone buzzed. Pepsie Dobbins awoke, heard a voice speaking and murmured, "Hello?"
The voice continued speaking, and the phone continued buzzing. Pepsie shook her befogged head to clear it and realized it was her tape recorder speaking in the voice of Buck Featherstone.
". . . on the other hand, if there were two Oswalds, the substitution was made when the real Oswald was stationed in that U-2 base in Japan."
Pepsie clicked off the tape machine and picked up the quietly buzzing telephone.
"Pepsie Dobbins?" a soft voice asked.
"Yes."
"What is past is prologue."
"Say again?"
"You are on ground zero of the story of the century."
"My words exactly."
"And I'm in a position to help you."
"Yeah?" said Pepsie, sitting up. She hit the Record button on her built-in telephone recorder, just in case.
"The people out to get this President are the same people who martyred President Kennedy."
"Who? Who? Tell me!"
"The establishment."
"What establishment?"
"The establishment."
"Isn't the President the establishment? Now."
"No, I mean the infra-establishment. The secret people in secret offices doing secret things. Sometimes they work for the military-industrial complex. Sometimes they are entrenched bureaucrats in low places. Other times it is Congress itself."
Pepsie frowned. "Who are they this time?"
"The medical-industrial complex."
"Medical-"
"They have left a clue. You should find this clue and expose it to the world so the world will know. Maybe if the world finds out, this President can be saved from involuntary martyrdom."
"Who are you?"
"Call me the Director."
"The director of what?"
"I want something in return from you," the Director said.
"What's that?"
"Footage. I want every inch of tape and film you can beg, borrow or steal on this story."
"Are you from CNN by any chance?" Pepsie asked.
But the line went dead.
DR. HAROLD W. Smith awoke in the rosewood somberness of the Lincoln Bedroom. He had ne
ver enjoyed that privilege before. Not even at the invitation of the President who had installed him as director of CURE.
It was a privilege that under ordinary circumstances Smith would never have accepted. But the threat to the President was extraordinary, and the Secret Service seemed, at best, inept.
And his cover identity as retired Secret Service special agent seemed unimpeachable. No one would connect him with the Harold Smith who was director of a sleepy institution like Folcroft Sanitarium.
Smith awoke with the dawn and allowed himself the momentary luxury of absorbing the impressions of the Lincoln Bedroom. It was here that seven Presidents had come to contact him. The room was red. It seemed appropriate inasmuch as the telephone in Smith's office was also red.
Curious, Smith pulled open the night-table drawer and exposed the White House end of the dedicated line to Folcroft and CURE. It, too, was red.
Smith lifted the receiver. The line was dead. Restoring it, once the current mission was completed, would be his chief priority.
Smith was about to roll out of the big rosewood bed when someone knocked twice on the door.
"Yes?" Smith said.
The door opened, and to Harold Smith's absolute horror, the First Lady barged in, wearing a turquoise Donna Karan dress.
"Are you Smith?" she demanded.
Smith hesitated. Then, remembering his cover, said, "Yes."
"The Cure Smith?"
Harold Smith eyes widened. "I do not know what you are talking about," he blurted.
The First Lady came over to the bed on clicking heels. Harold Smith modestly drew the covers up to his throat.
"Exactly who are you?"
"Madam, that is none of your concern."
"My husband says you're with the Secret Service."
"I am retired, technically," said Smith.
"And those two who stood outside my bedroom last night guarding us were also Secret Service agents?"
"Yes."
The First Lady's laserlike blue eyes blazed at him. "If any of you are with the Secret Service, then I'm Bess Truman."
Smith said nothing.
"Do you know what the little man in the kimono said to me this morning?"
"I do not," Smith admitted.
"He offered to slay anyone who stood between me and what he called the Eagle Throne in exchange for the Kingdom of Hawaii."
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