"No, the leak is not from our government, past or present. I feel confident about that much."
"What are you going to do about it? I know it won't matter to me and Chiun. We'll be out of here in another few days, but if CURE is terminated, you go down the tubes with it. Call me sentimental, but I'd hate to see that happen. "
"Thank you, Remo. It's very kind of you to say that."
"You know, Smitty," Remo said casually, "I used to hate you."
"I know."
"What you did to me-the frame for a killing I didn't do, the faked electric chair, the grave with my name on it-it was all pretty nasty."
"It was necessary. We needed a man who no longer existed because the organization would not officially exist."
"But it worked out. Look at me. I'm Sinanju now. Over in Korea I have a beautiful girl waiting for me and a house I built with my own hands. Everything is going to be all right. I feel pretty good about it. Oh, there were some rough times, but it's going to work out for me. I want it to work out for you too."
"Thank you, Remo," said Smith sincerely. He was uncomfortable with displays of emotion, but he and Remo had been through many trials together. It felt good to know that Remo no longer held a grudge. "Perhaps, Remo, you can do me a favor."
"What's that?"
"The Vice-President has just escaped an assassination attempt. I'm detailing Chiun to watch over him in case there is another incident. Could you pitch in?"
Remo considered. "Sounds like an easy gig. Okay, Smitty. One last assignment. A freebie."
"Thank you," said Smith. "I can't tell you how much this means to me."
"Just keep the submarine gassed up," said Remo, smiling. And he left the room whistling cheerfully.
Chapter 10
Security around Blair House was the tightest it had been since 1950, when Puerto Rican nationalists had tried to assassinate President Truman, who had been living there while the White House was undergoing renovation.
After the attempt on his life in Philadelphia, the Vice-President had been flown back to Washington to decompress. His private home was considered impossible to defend, so he had taken up residence at Blair House-where visiting heads of state usually stayed-across the street from the White House. Movable concrete barriers were placed in front of the ornate gray building to discourage car bombs, which were a favorite tactic of Middle Eastern terrorists. Snipers were deployed on the roof, and Secret Service agents patrolled the neighborhood, walkie-talkies in hand.
There had been no concrete identification made of the would-be assassin in Philadelphia. He had died at the scene. But he was believed to be a Middle Easterner, nationality unknown. It was assumed that the man had not acted alone because a taxi was seen leaving the scene. It was later found abandoned, its driver murdered in the back seat. A witness had come forward and described three Middle Eastern nationals who had been seen running from the car, and although a manhunt for persons of that type was immediately initiated, no trace of any accomplice was found. But the tentative identification of the dead attacker as Middle Eastern had galvanized the Secret Service. They were prepared for any terrorist attack on the Vice-President's life short of a tactical nuclear weapon.
They were not prepared for the two men who sauntered down Pennsylvania Avenue as if they owned it and all the land around it as far as the eye could see.
Secret Service Agent Orrin Snell received a routine notification when the two passed a Secret Service checkpoint near the George Washington University Hospital.
"Two subjects coming your way," the checkpoint told him via walkie-talkie.
"Descriptions?" Snell asked.
"Male Caucasian, about five-eleven, weight 155, brown on brown, and wearing a black T-shirt and gray chinos. Accompanied by a short male Oriental, balding, age approximately eighty."
"Describe Oriental's attire."
"Words fail me," said the checkpoint. "You'll know him when you see him. He's dressed like Pinky Lee."
"Like who?"
"Like Pee-Wee Herman."
"Oh," said Snell, understanding perfectly. The pair were just coming into view now. He sized up the Caucasian with a glance. No trouble from that quarter. The guy was obviously unarmed. The Oriental was very short and very old. He wore a red business suit that would have been well-tailored except that the sleeves flared like those of a mandarin's robes. He walked with his hands tucked into the sleeves so that they were unseen. There was plenty of room in those sleeves to conceal a pistol or a grenade.
Agent Snell drew his automatic from its shoulder holster reflexively. He was not taking any chances.
"Do not point that offensive thing at me," said the small Oriental in a squeaky voice.
"Hold on, Little Father. Let me handle this," the Caucasian said.
"Please stand perfectly still," Snell ordered. "I need backup here," he called into the walkie-talkie. Almost before the words were out of his mouth, two other agents came around the corner, pistols at the ready.
"What's the problem, pal?" the Caucasian asked.
"No problem, if you cooperate. I'd like your friend to take his hands out of his sleeves. Slowly."
"Is he crazed?" asked the Oriental of the taller man.
"Just do it. He looks nervous."
The Oriental shrugged and separated his sleeves, revealing what agent Snell at first mistook for a handful of needles. Then he realized he was looking at the longest fingernails he had ever seen in his life.
"Okay;" Snell said slowly. "I guess there's no problem." The other agents lowered their weapons.
"Excellent," said the Oriental brightly. "Now perhaps you can render us some assistance. We are seeking the residence of the President of Vice."
The pistols came back up.
"What do you want to know for?" asked Snell.
"We're tourists," said the Caucasian hastily.
"Tourists are not allowed into Blair House," said Snell.
"Our mistake," replied the Caucasian. "We'll be on our way now."
"I'll have to ask for identification before you go," Snell said.
The Caucasian turned his pockets inside out, showing empty linings.
"Must have left mine back in Peoria," he said.
"I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju. I carry no identification because all worthy persons know of me," the Oriental proclaimed.
"You don't have any identification either?" asked Snell.
"If you wish someone to vouch for me, ask your President. He knows me personally."
"He does?" said Snell, for a heart-stopping moment wondering if he had stopped a visiting dignitary.
"Yes," said the Oriental, returning his hands to his sleeves. "I saved his life once."
Behind the two men, one of the other agents mouthed a silent word: crackpots. Snell nodded.
"Why don't you just go on your way?" he said.
"That's what we were doing," said the Caucasian. Agent Orrin Snell watched them walk away.
"Talk about the odd couple," Snell joked, shaking his head. "Did you hear what he called the little guy-father. Okay, everybody back to your stations."
After his men had returned to their positions, Snell couldn't resist looking down the street after the strange pair. They were gone. Pennsylvania Avenue was deserted and there was no obvious place the pair could have gone. They were not across the street. He radioed to the next checkpoint.
"I've lost sight of a male Caucasian and an Oriental coming your way. Any contact?"
"Negative," was the reply.
Snell rushed up the Blair House steps and knocked on the ornate door in code.
Another agent poked out his head. "No problems?" Snell demanded.
"None. What do you have?"