"I don't think that's playing anymore," said Remo.
"It will play tonight," Smith said. "In the White House theater. And I expect to see it with him."
"How're you going to get in?"
"You and Chiun are going to get me in," said Harold Smith in a decisive tone of voice. "When you meet Chiun, rent a room at the Watergate Hotel. I will call you."
"You don't want us to meet you at the airport?"
"Absolutely not. Once we are in Washington, we will have to be exceedingly careful of our conversations, whether by phone or in person. The Secret Service, FBI and CIA are all going to be on the highest state of alert, eavesdropping on phone conversations and searching hotels for suspicious persons. Under no circumstances attract attention to yourself."
"Who, me?" said Remo.
"I was thinking of the Master of Sinanju," said Smith.
"Me, too," said Remo.
"One more item," said Smith.
"Yeah?"
"Buy yourself a good conservative suit and matching pair of sunglasses."
Before Remo could ask why, Harold Smith had disconnected.
Chapter 15
The director of the Secret Service showed up at the West Gate to the White House, briefcase in one hand, personal faxphone in the other.
A uniformed Secret Service guard confiscated both and ran the metal-detecting batons up and down his stiff body anyway.
"Are you crazy! Do you know who I am?"
"Orders from the Man, sir."
The director of the Secret Service turned as red as a boiler about to explode but held his tongue.
"You may enter, sir."
"First get me the President on the line."
"I'm sorry, sir. Big Mac has just left Crown."
"I was not told this."
"It was a sudden decision."
"Where did he go, Camp David?"
"No, sir. He's just gone for a jog"
"A jog! In the middle of all this?"
The gate guard said nothing.
"I want radio silence from this moment on," the director snapped.
"Sir?"
The director indicated the press microwave vans parked outside the White House with a toss of his gray head.
"The Grim Ghouls are probably prowling our band even as we speak."
"Yes sir."
The director was escorted to the Secret Service command post in the basement of the West Wing and repeated the order to the assistant chief of the White House detail, Jack Murtha.
Belt radios were immediately shut off.
"What's this about Big Mac going for a jog?" the director wanted to know.
Murtha said, "It's true, sir. We pleaded with him to reconsider, but he was insistent."
"He took his detail with him?"
"Of course, sir."
The director of the Secret Service heaved a slow, relaxed sigh. At least the President still trusted his personal guard.
"What's the latest from Boston?" he demanded.
"Another fax coming in now."
"What have we got so far?"
Jack Murtha went pale as a pear. "Morgue photos on the shooter and the subject who took him out."
"Let me see."
The photos were handed over.
"Damn, if that doesn't look like Oswald," the director said as agents gathered around him.
"If that's Oswald, who's buried in his grave?"
"And this guy does kinda resemble Ruby," an agent pointed out.
"Ruby was older," the director said. "If the shooter is Oswald plus thirty years, why is this other guy younger than Ruby?"
"Plastic surgery?" someone piped up.
"No theories. I want facts. We'll get into theories later."
"Sir, this fax is from the Boston medical examiner. A preliminary examination of the body reveals a mastoid scar and evidence of wrist slashing in the not-recent past."
"Damn! Oswald had scars like those."
"This can't be Oswald, can it?"
"I hope to God it's not," said the director, plugging his own faxphone in. "But let's get Oswald's prints out of storage and make sure."
"Which Oswald?"
"Both!" snapped the director. He dialed the local phone company and said, "This is the Secret Service. Reroute all calls from 555-6734 to this line."
The moment he hung up, the faxes began coming up. He lifted them off the tray as fast as they came, reading them with a face growing loose with the succession of shocks.
"Damn. Damn. Damn."
The other agents looked up expectantly.
"According to this, the serial number of that Mannlicher-Carcano is identical to the one Oswald used on Kennedy."
The other agents looked so blank they might have fainted on their feet.
The director looked up. "Anybody know where that damn gun ended up?"
"National archives."
"Check this out."
A hasty call later, Jack Murtha was saying, "Are you sure? Are you absolutely positively certain it's still there? Well, go look!"
He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "National archives say the rifle is still there, but they're looking anyway."
"God help them if they let that goddamn rifle out of their hands," the director said flatly.
A moment later word came back. "Director, they swear up and down the rifle is still under lock and key."
"Send a man over to double-check? No, do it yourself. Call me the instant you verify this and then call Boston to double-check their serial number. Damn! There can't be two rifles with the same serial number."
"What if there are?"
"If there are, we not only have a mess on our hands, but we may have to reopen the Kennedy hit, as well."
Later the phone rang, and a uniformed Secret Service agent reported, "Big Mac is back at Crown. Repeat, Big Mac is back at Crown."
"Stop talking like that. This is the telephone."
"Sorry, sir. Habit."
"Get word to the Man I'm on station."
"Roger. I mean, at once, sir."
Less than a minute later the telephone rang, and the President's breathlessly hoarse voice was saying, "See me in the Oval Office."
When he reached the Oval Office door, the director found the way blocked by three special agents instead of the usual one.
"Good thinking," he said.
"Identify yourself, sir," the middle agent said stiffly.
"You know who I am. Let me pass."
"President's orders, sir. Sorry."
"I'm hearing that word a lot," the director said, snapping out his ID.
"No sudden movements if you please," an agent cautioned.
"I hate the word sorry. Sorry means failure. It says, 'I do my job sloppily.'"
"Yes, sir."
When his ID was inspected and approved by all three agents, the door was opened and the director was ushered in. Once it was shut, he crossed the blue rug, saying, "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. President. I want you to know that I will leave no turn unstoned- er. . . stone unturned-to get to the bottom of the fiasco in the ranks this afternoon."
The President waved him to a chair.
The director sat. His eyes fell on the President's T-shirt.
"Isn't Smith a women's college, Mr. President?"
"Borrowed my wife's T-shirt," the President said tightly.
"Didn't she go to Wellesley?"
"Never mind," the President said testily. "I want to hear about Boston."
The director's face fell. "We're still developing our Intelligence."
"Tell me what you have so far."
"It's very confusing. It really should be digested by professional analysts before you look at it. Certain facts could be misleading. Very."
"I don't give a rip. I want to hear what you have. You have been investigating this, haven't you?"
"Absolutely," the director said, clearing his throat. He did it three times before the Presidential glare forced him to cough up.
"We have the shooter."
"Alive or dead?"
"Dead."
"Who is he?"
"His driver's license says he's Alek James Hidell." The President made a face. "Seems to me I've heard that name before."