Except for a skinny white man and a frail Oriental who jumped out of a screeching taxi, bounded over the limousines, and passed the Secret Service without even stopping to say: May I?
The agents yelled, "Halt!" and fired warning shots.
"No time," said the white man as he and the Oriental ducked around a corner a flick ahead of a storm of bullets. At the door leading into the debate studio, two Secret Service agents reacted to the intrusion with lightning speed. They drew down on the pair and for their pains were put to sleep with chopping hands.
Remo Williams slammed into the studio, where three cameras were dollying back and forth before the presidential candidates. There was a small studio audience of selected media representatives.
"The cameras first," Remo yelled. "We don't want this on nationwide TV."
"Of course," said the Master of Sinanju.
Separating, they yanked out the heavy cables that fed the three television cameras. Consternation broke out in the control booth when the monitor screens all went black.
"You again!" screeched the Vice-President, jumping out of his chair.
"Later," said Remo, pulling him from his chair so fast that his lapel mike came loose.
"What do we look for?" asked Chiun, plucking Governor Princippi from his seat.
"I don't know. A bomb. Anything," snapped Remo, ripping the chair from its mooring. "Nothing under this one." he said throwing the chair away.
"Bomb?" said the director. The panic was immediate. People flooded out of the studio. They made a human wave that blocked the Secret Service from coming in.
"Anything?" Remo shouted.
"No!" said Chiun, tearing up the planks of the stage. They flew like toothpicks in a storm.
Desperately, Remo looked around. The heavy spotlights inhibited his vision. He could hear the frightened voices of the studio audience as they tried to get through one door, and the angry orders of the frustrated Secret Service for them to clear a path. The three cameras pointed at him dumbly. Then one of them dollied forward.
Remo had a split-second thought that the stupid cameraman must not realize transmission had been cut off, when the camera clicked and a perforated metal tube jutted out under the big lens.
"Machine gun!" Remo yelled.
The Master of Sinanju threw himself across the huddled presidential candidates and held them down.
Remo twisted in midair, avoiding a rattling stream of .30-caliber bullets, and landed on his feet. The camera shifted toward the three crouching figures on the stage and aimed downward.
Remo leapt. There was no time for anything fancy.
Behind him the curtained studio backdrop shivered into rags as the bullet stream sank lower and lower.
Herm Accord jockeyed the camera, certain he had gotten the skinny guy in the white T-shirt. Now, where were the others? It wasn't easy to sight down a TV camera. The lens was larger than the gun muzzle he had installed into the camera the night before. It gave him too big a field of vision, like trying to center on a mosquito through a drainpipe.
Frustrated, he held fire and stuck his head around the camera.
The face of the skinny guy was an inch from his own. Herm Accord started to say, "What the-" when the soft consonant of the next word raising from his throat encountered his teeth as they careened down his gullet.
He jumped back, grabbing his throat, coughing spasmodically. He didn't know that a bicuspid, traveling faster than a bullet, had already fragmented in his throat. He didn't know and he didn't care. He saw the hand reaching for his face. It became a looming mass of pink, and for Herm Accord, like America, the lights had gone out.
Remo didn't bother to check the assassin's body after it fell. He jumped to Chiun's side. The Master of Sinanju was helping the Vice-President to his feet.
"Thank you," said the Vice-President in a shaken voice.
"For both of us," added Governor Princippi.
"Looks like we're just in time," commented Remo.
"Sinanju is always on time," said Chiun.
"We gotta get out of here," said Remo, glancing toward the door where the Secret Service agents were screaming that they were going to shoot everyone blocking the door if the way wasn't cleared immediately. "But we want you to know that this is the end of it. There'll be no more assassinations. We took care of the guy behind it all."
"I think I can speak for the governor when I say we appreciate your help," the Vice-President said sincerely, buttoning his jacket.
"Thank Smith," said Remo. "It's his operation. And just so you know, we're back in the fight."
"Glad to have you," said the Vice-President warmly.
"And you can forget about Adonis. He was part of the plot too."
"I can't understand it," muttered Governor Princippi, looking around the studio. "Where's my ninja? He said he'd always be by my side even if I couldn't see him. All I had to do was whistle."
"Did you whistle?" asked Chiun blandly.
"Actually, no. I was too busy ducking."
"It would not have mattered," Chiun said. "Everyone knows that ninjas are tone deaf. "
Governor Princippi placed his pinky fingers at the edges of his mouth and whistled sharply.
"Nothing," he said disappointedly.
"See?" said Chiun. "Remember, with Sinanju you do not even have to whistle. A phone call will do."
And Remo and Chiun slipped into the knot of struggling people at the door. Even though the door resembled a New York subway car during rush hour, they filtered through the people as if by osmosis, right past the frantic Secret Service agents.
When the Secret Service finally got into the studio, they found the two presidential candidates calmly replacing their lapel mikes.
"You're too late," said the Vice-President cockily. "But why don't you people do something useful like getting rid of this body? We've got a debate to finish."
All over America, blackened TV screens came to life again. News anchormen apologized in uncertain terms for what they called "technical difficulties." And when the debate resumed they had no explanation for why the presidential candidates were standing instead of sitting, or for the bullet holes and tears in the ruined studio backdrop.
Governor Princippi picked up his unfinished remarks in a serious, unruffled voice.
"Before we were interrupted, I was saying that we need to curb our intelligence services. But I want to make it plain that there will be a place in my administration for certain necessary intelligence operations. Specifically, counterintelligence. After all, these agencies exist so that our armed forces will not have to be used. And I want to publicly thank the anonymous Americans-the Toms, the Dicks, and the Harolds-who toil in these agencies. They keep America strong. Don't you agree, Mr. Vice-President?"
"Heartily," said the Vice-President. "We got 'em, and God knows we need 'em. And the Browns and Joneses and Smiths who keep 'em running."
It was the fastest position switch America had ever witnessed. But few Americans were surprised. The presidential candidates were, after all, politicians.
Dr. Harold W. Smith watched the debate from his hospital bed. Only he could guess what had transpired during the network blackout. Remo and Chiun. They had done it again. CURE would go on. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Remo Williams stopped the car at the rusting wrought-iron entrance to Wildwood Cemetery two days later and slipped through the squeaking gates.
The Master of Sinanju walked at his side. Remo's pace was eager.
"Smith would be upset if he knew you were here," Chiun warned.
"It was the only place I could think of to meet."
"Smith is already upset."
"How could he be? We saved his bacon. And America's bacon. There's a new President coming into office who thinks CURE should go on forever. And the Dutchman is going to spend the rest of his life in a Folcroft rubber room picking lint out of his navel. He's never going to bother any of us again. Our problems are over. I can't wait to tell Jilda."