"I previously offered Chiun the same terms as last year."
"And he turned them down. Nice try, Smitty, but I'm in the driver's seat. I want triple."
"Triple gold?"
"Triple everything. And a private jet."
"A private jet is out of the question. A private jet would require a full-time maintenance crew and could be traced back to the organization if it is seen near operational zones."
"Good point. Okay, skip the private jet. Let's talk about triple the gold and other incidentals. I want a car."
"What make?"
"A Tucker Torpedo."
"Ridiculous! There are not a handful in existence. It would call attention to the owner."
"As opposed to Chiun prancing about in those ridiculous kimonos of his?"
"I cannot control the Master of Sinanju's choice of attire."
"And I want a car no one else has," Remo insisted.
"Something more inconspicuous might be arranged."
"Inconspicuous may be acceptable. As long as it's metallic cherry red."
"Why red?"
"Why not?"
Smith closed his eyes in evident pain and said, "Triple the gold is out of the question. As you know, we siphon the funds from another federal agency, convert it to gold and ship it to Sinanju by submarine. Triple gold, if I am not mistaken, might sink the nuclear submarine we use for transport."
Remo blinked. "It would?"
"If we can't ship it, we can't deliver it."
"Make two trips."
"Impossible. Last time the submarine was captured by the North Koreans. They are still extremely touchy up there."
"Tell me about it. I gave Kim Jong II his first swirlie. There are probably Wanted posters all over Pyongyang with my face on it."
The look of horror in Harold Smith's eyes was absolute.
"Don't sweat it, Smitty. Jong's supposed to be dead."
Turning in his cracked leather chair, Smith fussed with the water dispenser by his desk and drew a paper cupful to wash down three pink antacid pills.
"I thought your stomach settled down about the time the AMA discovered that ulcers can be cured by antibiotics?"
"My ulcer is under control. My reflux is not."
"Then you'd better come around to my point of view, or it's gonna to get worse," Remo said with a cocky smile.
Smith winced. "I could consider half again as much gold."
"Double the gold."
"Double is not in your long-term interest."
"What do you mean?" said Remo. "The more I pull down, the bigger it'll impress Chiun. Gotta make a good first impression."
"If I pay double this year—and I may not by any means guarantee I can—further raises will be impossible."
"So?"
"On the other hand, if we can agree to half again as much gold this year, I might be able to match that raise next year or the year after."
"How come you can't do it now?" Remo asked.
"I will need time to prepare the President for such a giant increase. This way it is doable over time, and you can impress Chiun with your ability to get multiple raises from me."
Remo frowned deeply. "I dunno, Smitty."
"What is more important to you—the best deal you can obtain or an opportunity to impress Chiun with your negotiating skills two years running?"
Remo rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, the gold just sits in the treasure house. Chiun won't let anyone spend it."
Smith suppressed a groan. He had always suspected it from the way Remo and Chiun ran up lavish expense bills.
"So no one'll be hurt if I play it cagey," Remo muttered.
"Then it is a deal?"
"Okay," said Remo, "it's a deal."
Smith stood up and hastily put out his hand.
Remo hesitated. "Do you shake with Chiun?"
"Not usually. But I think it appropriate here. You have always been a man of your word."
Remo came out of the chair and shook Smith's hand. It was like shaking hands with a gloved skeleton.
"It's a deal, Smitty," he said, grinning.
"I am glad we could come to swift understanding. It saves us time. Now, you must convince Chiun to take the services of the House off the international market."
"Was that in our contract?"
Smith said angrily, "It was an unspoken assumption."
Raising his hands, Remo backed away from Smith's cold glare. "Hey, hey, I was just kidding."
Smith relaxed. "Shall I make arrangements for the gold now?"
"Don't we need a contract?"
"We have done business for over twenty years now. A contract is a formality. Have Chiun draw one up, and once I have seen it I will release the gold. But I would like to get it moving through the pipeline as soon as possible."
"Sure. Why not?" Remo started for the door. "I don't know why you and Chiun would lock yourselves in for hours wrangling over this stuff. It's easy. Just state your position from the start."
"One moment," said Smith, bringing his hands up to the desktop. The capacity keyboard lit up. He input computer commands with practiced ease.
Remo looked interested. "What are you doing? Making a withdrawal?"
Smith nodded.
"Nice to have your own bank. Where are you withdrawing from?"
"The Federal Emergency—" Smith's voice broke off. He froze in his chair. His gray face paled to a kind of ghost gray. "My God…" he croaked.
"Don't tell me you're overdrawn."
"In a manner of speaking," Smith said hoarsely.
"Hey. I was kidding."
"And I was not," Smith said grimly. "According to my screen, the Federal Emergency Management Agency operating fund was frozen not two hours ago by executive order."
"What idiot did that?" Remo demanded.
"The President of the United States."
"Can he do that?"
"Excuse me," said Harold Smith, reaching for the red telephone.
In the Situation Room of the White House, the President was listening to a tactical briefing. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was doing the honors.
"We have a division-strength unit at El Paso," he said, flicking a collapsible metal pointer so its end telescoped out and tapped a red triangle below El Paso, Texas.
The President said, "Division. How many men is that?"
"About fifteen thousand."
The pointer flicked north to a blue dot. "And a regiment in reserve."
"That's how many soldiers? Exactly."
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs rolled his eyes as the President held his pen poised over a memo pad.
"Over two thousand, but these numbers are unimportant."
"I'm Commander in Chief. I should know how many troops are in the field. Shouldn't I?"
The chief of naval operations looked to the JCS chair, and the unspoken thought between them was, the Commander in Chief should have taken time to memorize a military table of organization. Preferably before his inauguration.
The door was suddenly flung open in the unmistakable style that telegraphed a typical First Lady's hurricane entrance. Everyone stiffened. Especially the President.
"It's the telephone," she hissed.
"Can't it wait? I'm conducting the defense of the nation here."
"This phone needs answering."
"Take a message."
"I tried. Smith hung up."
"Smith?"
"Exactly."
The JCS absorbed this byplay with growing interest.
"Gentlemen," said the President, pushing back his chair, "you must excuse me."
"Of course, Mr. President."
After he had left the room, the Joint Chiefs of Staff huddled.
"Who's this Smith?"
"I think there's a Smith over at State."
"Don't we have an Admiral Smith, Admiral?"
"I believe we have three."
The door opened and the First Lady shoved her blond head in. Her blue eyes seared them like angry lasers. "That conversation never happened."
"Yes, ma'am," said the Joint Chiefs of Staff, quietly folding their hands as they waited for the President's return.