"Therefore these terrorists may be en route to locate or possibly to take possession of the President from whoever's holding him." The long-distance trunkline buzzed over the silence as both men considered the possibility. Finally Smith cleared his throat. His voice was metallic when he spoke again.
"Remo, the President must not fall into the hands of the Colombians."
"Gotcha."
"Remo, it would be better if the President died before he fell into their hands-better for him, and better for America."
"You don't mean-"
"Do you want me to repeat that?" Smith said harshly.
"No, I read you, you cold-blooded son of a bitch," Remo said bitterly.
"Do you remember the story of Enrique Camarena?"
"Should I?"
"He was a DEA agent stationed in Mexico. Corrupt Mexican authorities betrayed him to drug traffickers. They tortured him until they extracted every DEA secret they could. Then they killed him. The President holds many secrets too. Our national security-never mind our nation's prestige-rides on his not falling into the hands of these bloodsuckers."
" I said, I read you," Remo snapped. "Look, we're on it. Is there anyone we can trust down here?"
"No."
"That makes it harder for us. We're handicapped as it is."
"Your best lead will be the local Mexican news," Smith said. "That was the source of the bread-truck tip. Follow any rumor, no matter how bizarre."
"Oh, come on, Smith!" Remo exploded. "We can't hang around watching TV, hoping for a lead."
"You'll do whatever it takes, Remo," Smith said flintily. "But you'll do your job. And stay in constant touch. "
"There's another thing," Remo said quickly. "Chiun thinks the V. P. recognized him. That's why he took off."
"Remo, that's impossible. The President knows what you both look like, but the Vice-President could not."
"You don't suppose the President could have told him about us?" Remo suggested.
Smith's voice was flat. " I cannot believe this President would do any such thing."
"Then can you explain it?"
"No," Smith admitted.
"Well, there it is. Look, we'll stay in touch. You do the same."
"I want results, Remo." Smith hung up on Remo's response. He had work to do.
Down in Mexico City, Remo snapped, "And you'll get them," into the dead phone. He hung up, adding, "You just might not like them. But then, you never do, do you?"
Outside, a violent electrical storm had broken out. Rain came down in sheets of metallic needles. It washed the windows like an invisible car wash. Forked lightning stirred the storm.
Remo turned to Chiun, lying on the bed. "We got to move fast," he said. "Can you hold up your end?"
The Master of Sinanju opened his tired eyes.
"Yes. The rain will cleanse the air of impurities."
"It won't add any oxygen. We're way above sea level. "
Chiun slipped his legs over the side of the bed.
"We must do what we can. Where do we begin?"
"Believe it or not," Remo said, picking up the remote-control unit and pointing it at the television set, "we start with the local news. I'll watch. You translate."
He fell back onto the bed, felt something hard dig into his back, and pulled out the videotape of the President's rescue. He tossed it on the nightstand and waited for the TV screen to come to life.
Chapter 16
The White House staff called it "grips and grins."
After four straight hours of it, the Vice-President of the United States called it agony.
He collapsed in his suite at a local hotel.
"Boy, am I glad that's over!" he told his chief of staff. "I could use a round of golf," he added, squeezing his right hand, "but I think if I get a club in my hand, I won't be able to let go."
"I got bad news for you, Dan."
The Vice-President looked up.
The look on his chief of staff's face was grave. He was pale. His voice had quavered toward the end.
For an instant the universe reeled under the Vice-President of the United States. For an instant he thought the thing he half-hoped and half-dreaded had come to pass. The thing that the nation talked about, joked about, and even feared, each according to his views and political opinions.
"You mean . . . ?" The Vice-President croaked.
"Yes," the chief of staff said. "The White House wants us to go to Detroit and do another one of these damn things."
The Vice-President let out his breath. His heart started beating again. He was not the new President.
"What?" he said dazedly.
"More grips and grins," the chief of staff said grimly. "The White House wants it coordinated with the Bogota thing."
"Oh," said the Vice-President. He was relieved. He hadn't wanted to become President under these circumstances. But the possibility had been on everyone's lips ever since the President had agreed to go to Colombia.
"I don't know if I can deal with this," the Vice-President admitted, trying to unclench his right hand.
"It's a two-hour flight. Take a nap and soak your hand-shaking hand on the plane. But let's go. They're really anxious about this."
The Vice-President got up and straightened his tie with stiff fingers.
"Oh, by the way," his chief of staff said, pulling out an envelope, "this is for you."
The Vice-President reached for the proffered envelope, but his fingers refused to close around it. It dropped to the carpet.
"I'll get it," said his chief of staff.
"No, I will," the Vice-President said genially.
They bumped heads attempting to retrieve the fallen envelope.
"Sorry."
"No, I'm sorry," the Vice-President said, holding his head.
His chief of staff helped the Vice-President to his feet and again handed him the envelope. This time the Vice-President accepted it with his left hand. The transfer was completed without further incident, much to his chief of staffs surprise. He had known the Vice-President to forget his own wife's name.
The Vice-President looked at the blank white front and asked, "What is it?"
"From the White House. It's your speech."
"My speech?"
"Yeah. They had the President's top speech writer draft it. I think it's tied to the one the President is giving in Bogota."
"Really?" the Vice-President said, pleased that he rated a presidential speech writer. He reached for the flap.
"No, don't open it now!"
The Vice-President's smile turned to a frown. "Why not?"
"It's not to be opened until you give it."
"How am I gonna practice it?"
"You can't. The White House gave strict orders that you not read it beforehand. There's a covering letter inside explaining that."
"okay," the Vice-President said, digging at the flap.
"No! You're not supposed to read that until five minutes before the speech."
"This is crazy!"
"The White House chief of staff says it's very, very important. It's a major speech. He says it may be one of the most important of your career."
"This is weird."
"This is politics. And you know how the President is about leaks. Now, come on. We're got a plane to catch."
Chapter 17
Emilio Mordida wore the stony copper face of a mestizo. His expression seldom wavered. It might have belonged on a Mayan rain god. Emilio was of Mayan descent. Also Zapotec, Chichimec, and of course Spanish.
Like most mestizos, he had no concept of time. Not even years of working as a desk clerk in the Japanese-owned Nikko Hotel in Mexico City's Zona Hotelera had inculcated him with a shred of punctuality. A wake-up call for seven sharp might be made at seven-fifteen or even seven-fifty-nine. It did not matter. This was Mexico, where the only god was manana.
It was another desultory afternoon in the massive neo-Aztec lobby of the Nikko. Emilio shifted between the computer terminal and the guests checking in and out, looking very modern in his powder-blue jacket, but wearing the immutable mask of his Mexican forebears, one that betrayed no hint of ego or inferiority. It was the mask many Mexicans wore in a land that did not belong to them anymore.