"Yes?" the president said. "I'm really interested."
"We'll have someone into the White House with you by late tonight, sir. A somewhat older man," Smith said.
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"Oh, the Oriental. Golly, I've heard of him. Over eighty, I was told, but I don't every have to worry about growing old, not once f see him in action. How old is he exactly?"
"The one we'll be sending is in his sixties and is Caucasian. He has what has been described as a lemony face and speaks with a New England accent."
"If you fellows have some age cure, let me know about it," the president said, chuckling.
"No sir, we don't," Smith said. The president was taking with good grace the fact that an old administrator who had not fired a planned shot for more than thirty years was now the only one standing between him and his death.
Harold W. Smith shut down the computer access codes from his office in Folcroft, reducing to only one portable device the ways to reach his computers. The device fit into his briefcase.
Gun, he thought. Now where did I put the gun?
Then he realized his gun wasn't in his office. It was home.
He told his office secretary,, who thought he spent too much time cooped up in his office, that he would be gone for a few days, possibly a few weeks. He authorized her to make any decisions that had to be made and to sign any papers that needed signatures.
A few days, possibly a few weeks. He did not tell her possibly even a bit longer than that. Like forever. If he did not contact his computers within any 168-hour period, automatically the entire network would erase itself and no evidence would be left that the organization ever existed. Remo and Chiun, of course, would be on their own.
Something had gone wrong, but it had been going wrong for many years. It was only when Smith was in his house, holding his old pistol in his hands, that he realized fully what had happened over the years. You didn't see change
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when it was gradual; and sometimes it took many years to see motive.
Remo had been recruited in his special way because he was an American patriot. Now he had become something else. The enforcement arm was off somewhere enforcing something else.
Chiun had trained more than Remo's body; he had trained his soul. The whole organization came down to a window on the world through which everything could be seen, but nothing could be done, and now its strongest enforcement arm was an old gray-haired man searching through an old bureau drawer for a 1938 Smith and Wesson .38 caliber revolver.
Smith found it wrapped in oiled rags. It was clean, but he didn't trust the ammunition. The shoulder holster was curled and brittle.
He remembered the last time he had used the gun. It was on a drop into France. He was with the old OSS that later became the CIA. He was told to shoot a young woman who was a Nazi collaborator and was going to get them all killed. He remembered how she smiled. She knew he was going to shoot her, and she just smiled as if it were some joke. It haunted him. He spent spare moments for almost a year reassuring himself that he had saved countless lives by shooting that smiling woman.
Only years later, when he was running the organization, did he understand what had happened. Ironically, it was Remo who made it come clear, in an afterthought, mentioning how some people-knowing they had lost and sensing they had an amateur in front of them-would laugh or smile as their last striking-out at their killer.
"Chiun tells me some people do that," Remo said.
"Did someone, a target, do that to you recently?" Smith asked.
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"Oh, no," Remo had said. "They do it sometimes to amateurs."
"Oh," Smith had said. Remo had become the professional.
And now the professional was off somewhere while the amateur was going to defend the life of the chief executive officer of his nation.
How many hundreds of millions had the country spent for the organization and in return was getting a man who in any other service would have been retired for age and who had found that his shoulder holster had split from age and he was going to have to carry his revolver in his briefcase.
When Irma said good-bye to him-he told her that he was going to Washington for a few days-he saw that she had been crying. She knew he was carrying the gun again.
You didn't stay married to a man for so many years and not know a thing like that.
Chapter Five
The president was overjoyed.
The country had spent $7 billion to develop an antimissile space ray, and that didn't work. The federal government had lent cities $20 billion to repair subways and they didn't work.
Bridges were crumbling around the country, and all the road tax money didn't seem to help them at all. Educational costs had tripled and the only educational increase was in illiteracy across the land.
But this evening, he was going to see more than his money's worth. His predecessor had told him about the old man who could crush glass in his hands, shredding it to powder, and then through finger movement make it into glass again.
The man could climb walls.
His money's worth.
"Sir, your new auxiliary bodyguard is here. But he's, well, sort of old, sir," said the chief of the Secret Service detail assigned to the White House.
"Well, don't mess with him, whatever you do," chuck-
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led the president. He wondered what sort of robes the man would wear. His predecessor had said he wore flowing crimson robes with golden decorations over which his long fingernails seemed to flutter.
This time the man was dressed in a gray three-piece suit. He had a lemony face. He apologized for being a bit late because he had to get ammunition and a new holster.
"You cut your fingernails, I see," said the president. Harold Smith glanced at his fingernails, then shook his head.
"They're short," the president said.
"Yes," Smith agreed.
They were in a private meeting room outside the Oval Office. The president was wearing pajamas and a bathrobe. He was preparing for bed.
"We have information," Smith said, "that someone is going to make another attempt on your life at six A.M. tomorrow. For some reason, the Secret Service failed to get word to you."
"They've been penetrated?" asked the president.
"I don't know. It may be, but it may not. Sometimes things just don't work."
The president sighed and then gave a good-natured smile. "I know all too well. But you're here now."
"What I propose, sir, is that I stay with you until tomorrow's incident passes. Then use alternate bodyguards until I can track down these people who are trying to kill you."
"Do you know who they are?"
"No, sir," Smith said. "But they have made a mistake in using certain communications systems that I can pick up."
"At least there are other people in the world who make mistakes," the president said. Smith was impressed by the man's good nature in the face of adversity and danger.
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"Well, good luck," said the president. "But say, could you do me a favor? Would you show me how you shred glass in your fingers?"
"I'm sorry. I can't do that," Smith said.
"Well, then, could you climb a wall?"
"I guess. I used to be able to if there were stepholds."
"No. I mean straight up a sheer wall."
"You're thinking of someone else," Smith said. "He's not available now."
"There's a young white guy who's pretty good too, I was told," the president said.
"He is busy also," Smith said.
"You guys certainly must be doing important things when the president of the United States rates number three on your list."
Smith sat outside the president's private door, along with a young healthy man with a square jaw and an athletic build. The CURE director felt like some uncomfortable subway rider out of place in the great mansion that was the White House, sitting next to a young man who knew he did not belong there
.
There was a White House rule that bodyguards were not supposed to talk while on guard because that would distract them. But Smith didn't have to talk with the young man to know what he was thinking every time he glanced over at the late middle-aged man in the three-piece suit with the bulge of a regular size .38 caliber revolver, manufactured in 1938, under his jacket. He could feel the young man wanting to ask Smith where he had bought that cannon that was jammed in under his jacket.
The pistol was almost as big as the young man's Uzi machine pistol, that all-purpose Israeli sidearm so preferred by bodyguards around the world.
Well, the pistol would have to be better than the Uzi.
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Because if that young athletic man made a move to the door of the president's sleeping quarters at 6 A.M., Harold W. Smith was going to have to drop him with the .38.
At 5:55 A.M., Smith suddenly realized he had made a mistake. It came when the young man was relieved. And the mistake was not that the young man might be the one who would kill the president. Smith suddenly realized that the president didn't leave his sleeping quarters until 10 A.M., and he was going to be hit while he slept. In his bedroom. Smith made a move to the door, but the new guard's Uzi was suddenly facing his eyes. The barrel was wider when it was pointed at you, he realized.
Smith was past retirement age for many government departments, and he was looking down the barrel of a gun again.
"You cannot enter alone," said the door guard. He was a clean-cut young black man with the darkest, coldest eyes Smith had ever seen. The Secret Service had chosen well.
"I've got to. The president is in danger."
"You cannot enter without permission of the pre-wake shift supervisor."
"Let's get it."
"You know what this can do to your career?" asked the black Secret Service man.
"Call him," said Smith. The Uzi never left Smith's direction as the agent used a wall device to phone his shift supervisor.
"He'll be down in five minutes," the agent said.
"That's too late," Smith said.
"You cannot enter," the bodyguard said. "You can only protect this station."
"Three minutes from now will be too late. We might already be too late."
"I'm sorry. You cannot enter."
Very slowly and without a sudden motion, because it
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had to be done slowly, Smith reached his right hand under his jacket and withdrew his pistol between thumb and forefinger. The Uzi raised to Smith's eye. Smith bent and placed the pistol on the carpeting. If he had dropped the old thing, it might have gone off.
Then, with knees creaking, he stood up and said to the Secret Service agent, "You are going to have to kill me to stop me from entering."
"You cannot enter," the agent said.
Smith very slowly turned the handle on the door to the president's sleeping quarters. The large-barreled Uzi went to his right eyeball. He could feel his eye touch the gun metal. It make him blink. In a moment, the great black hole of the barrel would flash, and Smith's head would be splashed all over the White House hallway.
"I am sorry," Smith said. "I have to enter."
And he pushed the door open silently. It opened to a small Georgian living room with the embers of a pre-night fire dying down. The carpeting made no noise under Smith's feet. The agent walked alongside him, the Uzi still pressed to Smith's head.
A large white door with a polished brass handle stood at the right. Smith moved across the carpet and opened the door. He could see the agent's trigger finger tense. If the man hiccupped, that gun was going off.
Smith opened the door. He could hear snoring. It came from a large white canopied bed.
It came from a woman with her eyes shielded by night blinders. A man slept next to her. He looked camera-perfect, even in his sleep.
"Mister President," Smith said. "Get out of that bed. Get out now." The gun still pointed at his head.
"What? What?" said the president. "Who? What? Oh, you. Yes. Yes." The president nudged his wife.
"Dear, you've got to get up."
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"I just fell asleep," she said.
"You've got to get up," the president said.
"You really do, ma'am. Right now," Smith said.
"Oh, my god," said the president's wife, covering herself with covers as she sat up with night-blinders on.
"Come quickly," said Smith. The president led her by the hand out of the bed. Smith nodded them toward the door to the hallway, and shut their bedroom door. It was 6 A.M. exactly.
Smith knew the door was very good because it stayed on its hinges as the blast went off behind it. The floor shook.
"My god," said the black Secret Service agent. He lowered the Uzi.
"That was close," said the president. His voice was almost cheerful.
Smith had never seen anyone barely escape death and still exhibit such charm. "Are you all right, sir?" he asked.
"You bet," the president said. "I just started the day a bit earlier."
"How can you be smiling, sir?" Smith asked.
"I'm just imagining how disturbed the press corps is going to be when they find out someone missed again."
"Eeeeek," screamed the president's wife. The agent stepped back as though punched by her scream. Smith looked dumbfounded. Only the president was calm.
"You," she screamed at the president. "You and your frigging good nature. Will you hate, damn you? They almost killed us."
"But they missed," said the president with a smile. He looked around for a jelly bean.
"Hate," she shrieked. "Hate someone. Hate anything. Dammit, will you hate?"
"If it will help you, sure, dear. I'll hate whoever you want me to hate."
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"Anyone, damn you," she screamed. Veins bulged in her neck as she turned to Smith. "I've had to live with this damned good nature for thirty years now. Vilification in the press. Daily attacks and now bombs, and that . . . that . , . that whatever-it-is won't hate."
The shift supervisor finally made it down, and there was a confusion of men and guns and walkie-talkies. With the president's consent, Smith took charge.
"Sir, there is no time as safe for you as the next few minutes. Please get dressed. I would like to meet with you and your one most trusted advisor."
"I trust them all," the president said.
"Wouldn't you know?" said his wife. "And you," she said, pointing to Smith. "Why is now so damned safe?"
"Because they've just missed. They think the president is dead, tie is safe until they find out he is still alive. Then it becomes dangerous again because they'll try again."
"Good," said the First Lady. "That's something I can deal with. At least there are some reasonably vicious people around. Good. I can hate them."
"You can't blame her," said the president. "It's lousy getting awakened in the middle of the night."
"Yes sir," said Smith.
The man the president chose to accompany him to the meeting with Smith was his secretary of the interior. A bald man who also had a good nature. Smith was grim.
"First, let me thank you for giving me authority here in the White House, but I am going to have to leave you."
"Why?" asked the secretary.
"Because if I stay here, the president is definitely going to die. Eventually, one of these attempts will work. This is not some nut somewhere with a fast shot in a crowd. This is a determined methodical attempt on the president's life."
"Another government?" asked the president.
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"I don't know yet. But until we put them away, you are not safe."
"How do you know it's even an organization?" asked the secretary of the interior. "How do we know we're not dealing with one nut?"
"Because they have a communications network. And because we found the person who planted the bomb. She was the chambermaid who made the bed."
"And she said there were others?"
"Most el
oquently," Smith said drily. "Her throat was cut by a not too sharp instrument."
The good nature left the face of the president. The secretary of the interior shook his head.
"How can you be sure you can get them before they strike again?" asked the president.
"I can't."
"Then I'm still vulnerable. Other people could get hurt around here if this keeps up," the president said.
"1 have a plan to deal with that. Go abroad," Smith said.
"What will that do?" asked the secretary.
"That will get the host country's secret service in charge of the president's safety."
"You mean the president has to leave the country because it's not safe for him to stay here?" the secretary of the interior asked. It was not so much a question as a statement.
"Exactly," said Smith.
"Well, that is one piece of garbage," said the secretary.
"Yes," Smith agreed.
The secretary of the interior's forehead was perspiring. He pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket, and a few seeds fell from the handkerchief.
"Where did you get those?" Smith snapped.
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"Are they back again?" asked the secretary, holding up a seed. It was pale yellow and the size of a gnat.
"It's a grass seed," he said. "They're trying to frighten me. Just some environmentalist nuts."
"Do these people always leave grass seeds around?" Smith asked.
"Yeah. It's their calling card. They believe in the universal goodness of everything. Except people. They are the fringe of fringes. They protest everything."
"When did you put that handkerchief in your pocket?" Smith asked.
"Could you two deal with this later?" the president asked. "We ought to move along with our plans if I'm to leave the country."
"This is why you have to leave the country," Smith said. He took the seeds from the secretary along with the handkerchief. "We found the chambermaid dead. In the ragged edges of her throat were sprinkled a few grass seeds. They may be crazy, Mr. Secretary, but they're not so harmless."
But the secretary of the interior was not listening. At the very moment he realized that the people who had attempted to kill the president had gotten as close to him as his handkerchief, the fear and tension overloaded his nervous system, and he removed himself from the horror of it by simply passing out.
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