"I am certain you misunderstood him."
"And he called you Emperor Smith and the President a puppet."
"That, of course, is preposterous."
"If he is a puppet, he's my puppet. Do you understand?"
"Yes," said Harold Smith, "I understand."
And the First Lady stormed out.
HURRIEDLY DRESSING, Harold Smith then walked down to the Oval Office in the West Wing of the White House. It felt strange to walk these pale halls so freely, but these were strange times.
Standing before the white door was Remo Williams, dressed in a slate gray Brooks Brothers suit and dark sunglasses.
"I hate this," Remo grumbled when Smith stepped into view. "I haven't worn a suit in years and now I remember why."
"Yes?"
"They itch."
"Your credibility as a Secret Service agent is very important to this mission. Now I must speak with the President. Is he alone?"
"No. Chiun is trying to con him into something, as usual."
"My God," said Smith, knocking in the door.
"It's Smith. I must see you, Mr. President."
The twangy voice called, "C'mon in."
Harold Smith stepped into the Oval Office. He saw that it had been redecorated and wrinkled his nose at the change in tradition. Then he noticed the desk. It was the Resolute desk, constructed from the timbers of the British warship Resolute-the same desk at which President Kennedy had sat when Smith had first met with him three decades before. Smith had read that Johnson had banished it from the White House. It was a shock to see it again after so many years. He shook off the tidal current of memories and cleared his throat noisily.
The President brightened when he saw Smith and waved him over. "Smith! Come join us."
The President was seated in the middle of the deep blue rug before the desk, over the Great Seal of the President stitched into the nap in gold. The Master of Sinanju sat facing him, shimmering in a gold silk kimono.
"Shouldn't you be at your desk, Mr. President?" Smith asked.
"He is less a target seated on the floor," said Chiun.
"It's more relaxing, too," the President added.
Smith cleared his throat. "I just received a visit from the First Lady."
"Don't mind her. She thinks she's co-President. Took over half the West Wing before we even got all moved in."
"She asked me if I were Smith."
"Why wouldn't she? You are Smith."
"Smith at CURE," Smith said firmly. "Mr. President, I must ask for an explanation."
"Oh, that. Shucks. Don't you fret none. She don't know who you really are, except that you're a guy who contacts me from time to time on the net."
"Have I your solemn word that you have never told her about the organization?"
"Haven't breathed a word. And speaking of breathing, have you ever tried any of these breathing exercises my good buddy Chiun is showing me?"
"No, I have not."
"Makes a fella feel like a million bucks. Why, I don't even feel like my after-breakfast snack."
"That is good, Mr. President," said Smith stiffly.
"And he has an idea I really like."
"What is that?" asked Smith, concern edging his voice.
"Chiun thinks we don't really need the Secret Service."
"When you have the best at your beck and call," said Chiun, magnanimously, "all others are superfluous."
The President grinned broadly. "I can go along with that."
"There is only one boon I crave," Chiun said blandly. "A minor trifle."
"Yeah?"
Smith suppressed a groan.
"I have toiled in this land for many years, along with my pupil, Remo."
"America appreciates your loyalty," said the President.
"A loyalty that has hitherto been paid for in gold."
"So I understand."
"Gold is good. But I am an old man, having seen more than eighty summers. I crave something, a minor token of respect that no Master-not even the Great Wang-has been granted by an emperor."
"Just name it."
"No pharaoh, no caliph, no emir of old has ever offered this to Sinanju."
"I'm listening."
Chiun raised a hopeful finger. He beamed.
"Universal health care is the boon I crave."
"I'm working on that right now. In another year or two, we may be able to ram something through the Hill."
Chiun shook his aged head. "I care not for your hills. I wish only that my pupil and I receive adequate health care in return for our dangerous service."
"Smith, see to it."
"Yes, Mr. President," said Harold Smith, relieved that the Master of Sinanju had not asked for something difficult, like a state capital for his personal use.
The phone on the President's desk rang, and he reached up to take the receiver down.
"What is it?" he asked brightly.
The President listened intently. His buoyant mood quickly darkened. "Just what I needed," he said unhappily. "Thanks, George." The President turned to Harold Smith. "If we don't have enough troubles, that tub of guts Thrush Limburger just blew into town to stir the embers."
"Speak the word, and his head will adorn your highest flagpole," cried Chiun.
The President brightened. "Can he do that?" he asked Smith.
"Under no circumstances can I permit this," Smith said quickly.
"Maybe we can just kinda embarrass him a touch."
Chiun bowed his aged head. "I am your eternal servant, O generous dispenser of universal health care."
Smith interrupted, "Mr. President, I strongly disagree with that idea. We will need Remo and Chiun to follow any leads to the person or organization behind these attempts on your life, and frivolous expenditures of their time are contrary to the operational parameters of CURE."
"Shucks," said the President of the United States. Turning to the Master of Sinanju, he said, "Tell me more about how I remind you of Emperor Nero ...."
Chapter 23
Thrush Limburger plopped his three-hundred-odd pounds into the heavy-duty swivel chair of the mobile broadcast RV parked on the concrete plaza in front of the Capitol Building.
He cleared his throat noisily.
His assistant, Cody Caster, threw him a cue, and the red On Air sign went on. Thrush leaned into the microphone, and his basso profundo voice boomed out clear as controlled thunder.
"From occupied Washington, this is Thrush Umburger, the voice of the Tell the Truth network. Welcome, friends. We've braved the urban perils of the District of Columbia to bring you the truth. Something is rotten in the White House, and we're going to get to the bottom of it. Let's start by asking a few deceptively simple questions."
Thrush tapped a chime with a small hardwood mallet. It hit middle C.
"Why has the White House started a smear campaign against my good friend and fellow champion of right, the esteemed congressman from Georgia, Gila Gingold?"
Thrush tapped the chime again.
"Why has the President refused to make a public appearance since the alleged-note that underscore-alleged attempt to pot him yesterday?"
Thrush tapped the chime a third time.
"Are things what they seem to be? Well, my friends, if you know anything about Washington politics, you know that just isn't so."
The chime reverberated again.
"The President is on the ropes on this health-care thing. You know it and he knows it. Most of all, the First Lady knows it."
Thrush made his voice confidential.
"Suppose-just suppose, mind you-the President, looking to revive his doomed health-care scheme, arranges for a little artificial sympathy. Now, I'm not suggesting that a Secret Service agent was sacrificed to bring this about-accidents do happen-but consider these incontrovertible facts.
"Number one, the President returned to the White House and everyone goes into bunker mode. The first to go were the White House press corps. Tossed into the street
like so much garbage.
"Normally you want to reassure the nation that you're okay. Unless-you're not okay.
"Why doesn't the President come out and show his face? Is he dead? Is he afraid? Has there been a coup? Is the clumsy attempt to tar the good name of Congressman Gingold a smoke screen to cover up what's really going on? We here at the Triple-T network are not just throwing out these questions to hear the dulcet tones of our own voice-enthralling though they may be-but to get the cold, hard facts. To that end, I hereby issue a challenge to the President to show himself to the American people and prove that it is indeed he and not some nefarious double occupying the Oval Office. If the President would like to call in, we'll put him on the air. In the meantime, I want to hear your thoughts on this latest-dare I say it?-whitewash. First caller."
"Thrush," said a hoarse voice.
"Yes?"
"Do you recognize my voice?"
"You do sound suspiciously like the President." Thrush admitted with a chuckle. "But, of course, so do half a dozen stand-up comics these days."
The hoarse voice acquired an edge. "Thrush. Get stuffed."
"That, of course, was not the Chief Executive, appearances to the contrary," said Thrush Limburger. "But we do encourage him to call in."
IN THE OVAL OFFICE the President of the United States hung up the phone.
"I've always wanted to do that," he said, giving his desktop Don Imus souvenir bobble-head a hard tap.
Harold Smith cleared his throat unhappily. "Mr. President, that was in questionable taste."
"You kidding? You should hear how that bag of wind bashes my wife and daughter. I have half a mind to go on his fool program and give him a piece of my mind."
From the desktop radio the booming voice of Thrush Limburger continued. "Our next caller comes from right here in the District of Columbia. Caller, what do you think?"
"I think the medical-industrial complex is out to get the President," a soft voice said.
"The what?"
"The medical-industrial complex."
"I've heard of the military-industrial complex, but not the medical-industrial complex. You don't mean military-industrial, do you?"
"I mean the big hospitals, the insurance companies and fat-cat pharmaceutical industries. They are all different sides of the same coin called the establishment. And they will do anything to stop universal health care from coming into law."
"The establishment!" Thrush exploded. "Well-haw-I-thought people stopped talking about the establishment back around the time Saigon fell. What proof do you have of this rather fanciful theory, my fine antediluvian friend?"
"I don't have the proof. But the Secret Service does. Once the facts of their investigation come out, all America will know the truth behind the terrible events in Boston."
Thrush Limburger made a scoffing noise.
"I have a question for you, Thrush," the caller said.
"And what is that?"
"If you could be any kind of animal in the world, what kind would you be?"
"I'd have to think about that, caller."
"Would you be an elephant?"
"Well, I don't know about that, but I will venture to suggest the pachyderm is a much-maligned creature. Often called fat, much like-ahem-myself, when in fact it is a reasonably agile and dare I say svelte creature."
"An excellent choice, Thrush," said the soft-voiced caller, abruptly hanging up.
The President snapped off the radio. "Did you hear that?"
"Yes," said Smith and Chiun.
"That caller said the medical-industrial complex is after me. How would he know that unless he had inside information?"
"I do not know, Mr. President. But it is not impossible for a crank caller to touch upon the truth unwittingly."
"Do you think the medical-industrial complex is after me?"
"There is no such thing."
"Ever see those anti-health-care TV ads?"
Chiun spoke up. "That man was no crank," he said.
"What do you mean, Master Chiun?" asked Smith.
"Because he asked Thrush Limburger a certain question. "
"What question is that?"
"He asked what kind of animal Thrush would like to be."
"Probably a loud one," laughed the President. But no one else joined him.
A knock came at the door, and Remo's voice called through the panel, "The First Lady is here. Do I let her in or not?"
"Of course you let me in, damn it," the shrill voice of the First Lady said.
"Let her in," said the President in a weary voice.
"Mr. President-" Smith started to say. Then the door opened and the First Lady entered, her hands clutching loops and coils of black electrical cord dotted with red Christmas-tree lights.
"I have a problem with these decorations," she began.
Then she saw the President and the Master of Sinanju on the blue rug and Harold W. Smith trying to look inconspicuous.
"That's the Cure Smith, isn't it?" she asked the President.
"Yes."
"Will someone tell me what Cure is?"
There was an awkward silence lasting some forty seconds. The President threw Harold Smith a look that said, "It's in your court."
"It is an acronym," Smith said, knotting his tie uncomfortably.
"For what?"
"Committee on Urban Refugee Empowerment," Smith said hastily.
"I want to be on it!" the First Lady said quickly.
"I'll arrange it," the President said quickly. "Now, what's your problem?"
"I'm getting ready for the Christmas-tree lighting ceremony tonight-"
"Tonight!"
"Yes, tonight. Don't tell me you've forgotten."
"Damn. That means we'll have to let the press in."
"Not necessarily," said the First Lady, dropping the heavy coil of Christmas-tree lights on the Presidential lap with a rattle of insulated cord.
"What's this?"
"I've decided that we're going to have a multicultural Christmas tree. The first in White House history."
"I never heard of a multicultural Christmas tree," said the President.
"It will represent every ethnic group and creed that makes up the nation. All the trimmings have been handcrafted. But it's these lights I'm concerned about. I had them flown in from California."
The President fingered the tiny light bulbs strung along the cord. They were red but very long and tapered at the end.
"They look like little chili peppers," he said.
"Exactly. They're supposed to represent the Hispanic community, but my press secretary says they might be construed as insensitive. What do you think?"
"I think they're kinda cute," the President admitted.
"Cute, yes. But are they politically correct?"
"Don't ask me. You're the diva of inclusive politics. I'm only Commander in Chief."
"You just don't want to make the decision."
"And you want someone to pass the buck to if it backfires," the President fired back.
"May I make a suggestion?" Harold Smith said. "If you do not wish to offend the Hispanic community, why not leave them off?"
"They'll scream if we ignore them."
"Then a traditional Christmas tree is your only logical alternative."
"There's nothing traditional about this White House," the First Lady snapped, "and if I have any say, there never will be!"
"Who died and made you empress?" muttered the President.
The First Lady's face turned red under her blond bangs, and she made a tiny red mouth in the President's direction.
"You're not going to help me with this, are you?" she told the President.
"Flip a coin," suggested the President.
"Honestly," the First Lady snapped, grabbing up the coils of cord. "How did you ever get to be President?"
The door slammed on the President's "People like you voted me into office."
The door reopened, and the First Lady poked h
er bangs back in and said, "I almost forgot. Your press secretary is having an acute attack of spin fatigue over this Oswald conspiracy rumor. Maybe you should give a speech tonight or something."
The door slammed.
"I'm going to do better than that," the President said angrily. "I'm going back to Boston to finish my damn speech."
"Mr. President," Harold Smith said gravely, "I think it would be unwise to make a public appearance at this time."
"I can't let Thrush Limburger and the press boot me around like an old football," the President said, rising from the rug. "And I have to continue the push for health-care reform."
"May I ask why?"
The President glanced toward the still-vibrating Oval Office door. "Because my wife will have my butt if I don't."
Arising from the floor like a sunflower lifting toward the sun, the Master of Sinanju intoned, "Beware the Shrill Queen. Ambition smolders in her eyes. For she covets your throne."
"Tell me something I don't already know," the President muttered.
Chapter 24
The director of the Secret Service was manning the electronics-packed nest that was the White House command post when Harold W Smith walked in.
The director looked up, saw Smith and shot out of his seat, leveling an accusing finger. "I checked the Dallas district office. There's a Special Agent Remo Eastwood on file in the personnel records, all right, but nobody up there has ever seen or heard of him. He's a damn ghost!"
"It would have been better had you not checked."
"And Dallas has no records of any Smith."
"That is not true," Smith said coolly.
The director deflated. "All right, there are three Smiths on file in Dallas. Which one are you?"
"That is no longer your concern."
"I'm your fucking superior."
"Technically no. I am retired."
The director of the Secret Service sputtered inarticulately.
"The President has asked that you call him," Smith added.
The director sat down and dialed the President's inhouse line. He was put through immediately.
"Yes, Mr. President?" he asked.
His craggy face paled almost at once. He sat down hard. "I protest in the highest possible terms. Yes, sir, I understand the service did not acquit itself perfectly yesterday, but look, man- I mean, sir-you're still alive. That counts for something, doesn't it?"
The director listened with shoulders slumping like a wire coat hanger being warped. "I understand, Mr. President. I will vacate this office as instructed, but-"
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