"There goes my-I mean your-chance for reelection," the First Lady was saying.
"Evacuate!" shouted Remo.
The President and First Lady looked up, eyes going round, faces stark.
"What?"
"This thing is booby-trapped! Get out now!"
They stared at him in disbelief. Remo reached down toward an empty seat that stank of astringent chemicals and tore the cushions open with steel-hard fingers, exposing heavy plastic sacks filled with an evil red fluid. He slashed one open with the edge of a sharp fingernail, and pungent naphthalene flowed out.
"That stuff will go up like flash paper."
Abruptly the rotors wound up. The craft started to rock and lift.
Remo moved in. His fingers grabbed the safety belts, and they parted like cheesecloth.
"C'mon, Chiun," urged Remo.
The Master of Sinanju moved quickly, pushing the stunned First Family out of their seats.
They got them out of the helicopter just as the wheels lifted off. They had to jump from the steps, which were still in the down position and rising off the grass.
The steps pulled away into the night.
"Remo! What is it?" Smith asked hoarsely.
"Look at those steps. Where's the Welcome Aboard Marine One sign?"
"Damn," said Vince Capezzi. "I should have noticed that." Lifting his MAC-11, he added, "We can't let him get away."
"No," said Smith. "We'll have it tracked. It may lead to the conspirators."
But the fake Manne One didn't make it as far as the Ellipse between the White House and the Washington Monument. It was rattling over Constitution Avenue when it burst apart in a flat whoof of a sound. It hung there for an awful, indecisive moment.
In flames, it cascaded to the ground, after which it burned merrily. The black smoke soon carried in their direction, smelling of naphthalene.
The President of the United States stared at the crackling pile of twisted metal and said, "I don't understand ...."
"That, Mr. President," Harold Smith said grimly, "was the ultimate escalation. The real thing."
Then, past the blinking red light atop the white obelisk of the Washington Monument, a clattering noise resolved itself into a great olive-green-and-white military helicopter.
"That looks like Marine One," Vince Capezzi breathed.
"It is," said Remo. "The real one."
Grim-faced, Harold Smith turned to the President and said, "Mr. President, we have just witnessed conclusive proof that the conspiracy to kill you is a massive one, involving many persons prepared to trade their lives for your own."
"Don't I know it," the President said thickly.
"I have a suggestion."
"Go ahead."
"Order Marine One back. Let out word that you've died."
"What good will that do?"
"It may flush the conspirators out into the open."
"You're asking me to lie to the American people."
"I am asking you to save your own life. This conspiracy is deep, broad and well capitalized. It will stop at nothing to unseat you. We cannot unravel it if we are spending all our energy trying to preserve your life."
The First Lady said, "What does the Committee on Urban Refugee Empowerment have to do with any of this?"
She was ignored.
Smith went on, "This conspiracy has a definite goal in mind. Some thing or some aim that can only be achieved by your death. Let's give them what they want and see who steps from the shadows to claim victory."
"Then we will harvest their heads and display them as a warning to any who would contemplate similar perfidy," cried Chiun.
The First Lady regarded the Master of Sinanju with horrified eyes, so he added, "And insure universal health care for one and all!"
The First Lady grabbed the President's sleeve. "Do what he says," she hissed. "He makes perfect sense."
Remo rolled his eyes skyward.
Finally the President of the United States said, "I'm in your capable hands, Smith."
PEPSI DOBBINS was beside herself.
Hunkering down in an ANC broadcast van parked on Pennsylvania Avenue near the White House, she found herself a witness to history with no clue as to what was going on.
She grabbed her walkie-talkie. "Buck. Talk to me. What's happening out there?"
"I got it all on tape," Buck said excitedly.
"What did you get?"
"The Secret Service just shot the shit out of Santa Claus."
"What?"
"But it wasn't really Santa. It was Thrush Limburger in disguise."
"Oh, my God. Did he try to kill the President?"
"That's how it looked."
"The conspiracy thickens."
"That's not all. You remember the old Oriental and the guy with thick wrists from the airport?"
"Yeah."
"They were here. They helped hustle the President off as the shooting started."
"Where did he go? The President, I mean."
"Did you hear that dull thump a moment ago?"
"I did."
"No one's saying, but we think it was Marine One. It blew up."
"I'm shooting toward the Washington Monument right now. I think I was the only guy smart enough to sneak off. Everyone else started taping Thrush Limburger's corpse and asking idiot questions."
"There's no such thing as an idiot question in the pursuit of a story," Pepsie snapped.
"I caught Marine One flying off," Buck said breathlessly. "Then it blew apart and dropped straight down like a flaming sack of potatoes. I'm filming the wreck right now."
"Was the President aboard?"
"He was supposed to be."
"Then he's dead," Pepsie breathed. "He's really dead this time. We've got to go on the air with this."
"They'll never let us. Not after the last time you said he was dead over the air."
"Hold on," Pepsie said. Turning to a technician in the cramped broadcast van, she said, "Can you snoop in on the Secret Service transmission frequency?"
"We're not supposed to."
"That's not what I asked," said Pepsie.
The technician handed Pepsie a set of earphones.
Clapping one earphone to her head, she heard an ominous white noise. There were absolutely no Secret Service transmissions. All was static.
"Buck, what's going on?" Pepsie said into her walkie-talkie.
"White House staffers are booting us off the grounds. They look kinda scared."
"Okay. Meet me at the van."
"You got it."
Grabbing her cellular phone, Pepsie dialed ANC News. "Greg. I'm at the White House. Something big just happened."
"I though you were barred from the ceremony."
"That's why I'm hiding out in the news van. But my camera guy slipped in. Get this, Thrush Limburger just tried to kill the President. But the Secret Service got him first."
"That's what CNN is reporting. Do we have film?"
"Do we ever. But there's more. Marine One lifted off from the South Lawn not two minutes ago and blew up. Isn't that great?"
"CNN didn't report that."
Pepsie burbled excitedly, "I think we have an exclusive."
"Was the President aboard?"
"He was supposed to be," Pepsie said evasively.
"Supposed to be doesn't cut it, Pepsie. You know that."
"Look, we can do a live remote on the crash while the competition is still stuck on the 'cased Santa' angle. This is my big chance."
"This is career suicide if you go out on another limb."
"Trust me on this one. I have film."
"Start feeding the raw tape, and we'll see."
"You won't regret this," said Pepsie, hanging up.
She came out of her seat at the first knock on the van door.
"Hand it here," she said, grabbing the tape out of Buck Featherstone's fingers. She loaded it, hit Rewind, then told the technician, "Start feeding this as soon as it's racked."
&
nbsp; Then she clapped the headphones over her ears, telling Buck, "We can't go on the air until we have proof the President's dead."
"From where I stood, it looked like the Secret Service snipers might have been trying to shoot the President."
"Are you sure?"
"No."
"What the hell," said Pepsie. "It'll make a better story that way. We can always air a retraction later. It's all coming together." Pepsie pushed one earphone tighter to her head. "Wait a minute. Something's happening."
A thin voice over the Secret Service frequency said, "Tin Woodman enroute to Crown. Repeat, Tin Woodman enroute to Crown."
"They just said the Tin Woodman is coming here. That's the Vice President. Maybe they're going to swear him in!"
FIVE MINUTES LATER a black Lincoln Continental limousine slithered through the West Gate and stopped before the diplomatic entrance in the South Portico of the White House.
The press continued to pour out of the East Gate, oblivious.
Then the hearses arrived. There were three. They remained in the White House garage less than a dozen minutes and then wound back out in a sedate line.
"Three hearses," Pepsie whispered. "Three bodies."
"The President, the First Lady and maybe Thrush Limburger," said Buck.
"Or the First Daughter." Pepsie dialed ANC again. "Greg. The Vice President just went in. Then three hearses left."
"We're still reviewing film," Greg told her tensely. "The other networks are still sorting out the shooting. They report the President has left for Andrews Air Force Base and Air Force One."
"The hearse traffic has been coming in and out of the West Gate. I think we're the only ones to spot it. We own this story."
"Hang on, Pepsie."
"By my fingernails."
AT THE NORTH PORTICO diplomatic entrance, the Vice President of the United States was greeted by the White House usher.
"What the hell is going on?" he hissed.
"Come this way, sir," the usher said solemnly.
The Vice President allowed himself to be escorted to the Oval Office. He had been dining with his family when word came that his presence was urgently required at the White House.
They were intercepted in the Oval Office reception area by the President's chief of staff. "ANC has just declared the President dead."
For the Vice President of the United States, it was as if an anvil had landed on his head. A million hectic thoughts raced through his reeling brain. His vision actually dimmed. There was a roaring in his ears.
Then the grim face of the President himself poked out of the Oval Office door.
"Don't believe everything you see on TV," he said. "But for the forseeable future, you're confined to the White House."
"What's going on? A coup?"
"We're trying to tree a possum."
"Come again?"
"I'm dead, and you don't know any different. Got that?"
"Yes, Mr. President," said a very confused and only slightly disappointed Vice President of the United States.
BEHIND THE CLOSED DOORS of the Oval Office, the President of the United States faced Harold W. Smith.
"Everything's in place."
"We have only to wait," said Smith.
"I hate deceiving the American people like this."
"Better that they temporarily mourn a living man than bury another dead President for all time."
"You know," said the President, "I ordered the Secret Service to stand down."
"I know."
"Yet they had snipers on every roof overlooking the place."
"The director of the Secret Service no doubt considered it prudent."
"Makes me wonder if those shots weren't meant to hit me. "
"That possibility cannot be discounted at this juncture," said Harold Smith.
Chapter 30
With the announcement by ANC that the President of the United States had died in a helicopter crash, the other networks, predictably, followed suit. Within twenty minutes everyone had declared the Chief Executive dead.
There was no confirmation from the White House, no comment from the other branches of government. No one went into the executive mansion and no one and nothing came out.
For all intents and purposes, the White House became an informational black hole.
National Transportation Safety Bureau teams cordoned off the destroyed helicopter, allowing no cameras within viewing range.
The press held vigil into the late hours of the night, interviewing one another to fill air time.
And the nation held its breath.
IN THE WHITE HOUSE basement, Harold Smith monitored the ongoing news coverage out of the corner of one eye as he wrestled with the problem.
His worn briefcase lay open on the desk before hire, exposing the portable computer that was connected by phone lines to the great mainframes housed in the basement of Folcroft Sanitarium.
Smith had created a flowchart on his screen in an attempt to organize what was now a large and Byzantine sequence of events.
The trouble was the chart refused to flow.
That there was a conspiracy was beyond any shred of doubt.
Someone had set on the President a Lee Harvey Oswald double, perfect down to his fingerprints and body scars, armed with perfect replica Secret Service badge and vintage Mannlicher-Carcano rifle. And had filmed it.
That same someone had tricked an obscure bartender named Bud Coggins into gunning down the Oswald double in such a way that he, too, was killed in an eerie recreation of the original Oswald's murder. Coggins was not part of the conspiracy; that much was certain. Yet even as he was unwittingly covering up for the true conspirators, his VR helmet camera was transmitting pictures of everything he saw and did to the conspirators. That had been determined by an examination of the VR helmet.
Within hours of the events in Boston, the conspiracy had already shifted into a second phase in Washington, D. C. The replica Socks had infiltrated the White House grounds exactly in time to create chaos upon the President's return. And the replica Gila Gingold had struck by the end of day one.
Yet all of these incidents seemed engineered to drive the President from Boston, to the White House and then, in the final phase, trick him into boarding a booby-trapped helicopter and a fiery death.
Why? Why not kill him in Boston and be done with it? What was the point of it all?
The desk phone rang.
"This is the D.C. medical examiner," a voice said.
"Go ahead," said Smith.
"This man I have just autopsied is not Thrush Limburger. I know this because the actual Limburger is on my TV vociferously proclaiming his innocence."
"Does he have a burr hole at the top of his head? The fake, I mean."
"He does."
"What is the likely significance of such procedures?"
"Typically this is an operation used to cure Parkinson's disease by the introduction of fetal brain cells into an affected brain. It is called a brain graft."
"I see. Are there any other applications?"
"Well," the M.E. said slowly, "the only similar operation I have heard about involves transspecies applications-grafting animal brain cells from one species to another. It is purely experimental, but very interesting in that it shows behaviors and inherent instincts can be translocated across species."
"Could animal brain cells be introduced into a human brain?"
"Only an unethical madman would attempt it."
"You have not answered my question," Smith snapped.
"If the rejection problem could be solved, yes."
"Am I correct in assuming that such operations would require sophisticated techniques and state-of-the-art surgical facilities?"
"You are."
"Is there anything else?"
"The man was asthmatic. An inhaler was found on his person containing a cartridge of a common antiinflammatory steroid called Vanceril."
"Are you certain it is Vanceril?"
"Messenger the cartridge to the FBI crime lab and have them compare it to a sample already in their hands. They should match."
"At once."
"Thank you," said Harold Smith, hanging up. The phone rang again instantly.
"FBI. We have no fingerprint match on the Boston shooter."
"Unfortunate."
"But the California driver's license found on the body checks out as authentic. His name really is Alek James Hidell. We're trying to develop this information further."
"Get back to me when you have something solid."
Smith hung up again. He faced his screen frowning.
The conspiracy was frightening in its rough outlines. From the surgical procedure to the clever replica of Marine One, a small fortune had been expended in setting up the President. But for what? And why had everything been filmed?
Remo Williams poked his head in the door.
"How's it coming?"
Smith rubbed his tired eyes. "This conspiracy, whatever it is, required a small fortune to mount and a small army to implement. How could they possibly engineer such an operation without leaks or defections? It makes no sense."
"Speaking of making no sense, ANC says Pepsie Dobbins is about to go on the air and blow the whole thing wide open."
"Pepsie Dobbins..." Smith said strangely. "She broke the story about the Mannlicher rifle, claiming a Secret Service source. I would like to know her source in the service."
"I'd offer to squeeze the truth out of her, but thanks to Chiun we've been made as far as Pepsie is concerned."
"I did no such thing," a squeaky voice said.
The Master of Sinanju floated into the room, looking stern.
"I never mentioned the organization, O Emperor of Discernment."
Smith sighed. "I cannot help but think that the motive lies in the letters RX, which were scratched in the shell casing the Oswald replica fired," he said.
"But why would the conspirators try to claim credit for the ambush?" asked Remo.
"To strike fear into the hearts of their enemies," said Chiun. "It is both obvious and logical."
Smith shook his gray head soberly. "No one in their right mind would dare claim responsibility. The retaliation would be massive. No, the true meaning of the letters RX must be to deflect suspicion away from the actual conspirators."
"Toward what-the medical industry?" asked Remo.
Target of Opportunity td-98 Page 22