Smith smoothed his hunter green Dartmouth tie, and the action seemed to stabilize his wobbly sense of balance.
"I must speak with the President directly," he said, eyeing the thinning evening crowd so intently that they automatically stared back.
"We can get you into the White House, if that's what you want," said Remo.
"Yes," said Chiun. "No palace guard is equal to our stealth and cunning. If you wish to enter quietly, Remo and I will arrange it. If it is your preference that we storm the White Palace, this too is doable."
Remo looked at Chiun. "Doable?"
"It is word very popular in this province," Chiun said, bland voiced. "We must blend in however we can."
Remo looked at Chiun's gold-trimmed white silk kimono and said, "The only place you'll blend is at a Communion offering."
Chiun wrinkled his nose and said nothing.
"I have a rental car waiting nearby," said Smith, starting off.
OUTSIDE, Smith took the wheel, and Remo and Chiun at his tight-jawed insistence sat in the rear where they were less likely to be noticed. Smith drove down Constitution with all the urgency of a Sunday-school teacher, and when the white radiance of the White House cause in sight, Smith turned up Fifteenth Street and parked near the Treasury Building.
Shutting off the ignition, Smith turned and asked, "Remo, I trust you have your Secret Service badge and identification card with you?"
"Yeah."
"What name does it give?"
"Remo Eastwood. Why?"
"You are Remo Eastwood, a special agent out of Dallas. I am Smith, your supervisor."
"Just Smith?"
Smith stepped out, saying, "It is the perfect name if one does not wish to arouse undue notice."
"Just as long as no one asks your first name," said Remo, getting out, too.
"What is my secret name?" squeaked Chiun as they started up the broad stone steps of the Treasury Building.
"Moo Goo Gai Pan," said Remo.
"I will not be called that. I will be Old Man Lump."
"Who?"
"A famous Korean of renown."
Smith hushed them both as they entered the Treasury Building, and led them to the section given over to the Secret Service.
Smith flashed his ID at the turnstile, introduced Remo as Remo Eastwood out of Dallas and Chiun as expert on assassinations, hired by the service to consult on the attempts on the President's life.
They were passed without question.
"We here to see what the Secret Service is up to?" Remo asked as they moved through the corridors, attracting more than normal interest.
"No."
"Then what-"
"Do not be ridiculous," said Chiun. "It is obvious why Smith has come to this Greek money temple."
"Not to me," said Remo.
"Of course not. You have an illogical mind."
Remo followed in silence as Smith led them to a marble staircase that led downward into the building's subbasement. The way was blocked with a padlocked wrought-iron gate with a sign on it saying Unsafe. Do Not Enter.
The sign looked as if it had been posted in the days of Harry Truman.
To Remo's surprise, Smith took a key from a pocket and opened the fat padlock. A restraining chain rattled loose, and Smith opened the gate. He motioned them to slip through, then replaced the chain and snapped the padlock shut again.
They went down the cool stone steps, making virtually no noise. At the bottom they came to a huge steel vault door. There was a combination lock. Smith spun it once to clear the dial, then, blocking it with his spare frame, quickly worked the combination. It fell open on silent, well-oiled hinges the size of Amtrak rails.
"What's this?" Remo asked as they passed through the vault door. "The secret tunnel to the White House?"
"Of course," said Chiun.
"I wasn't asking you," said Remo.
Smith said, "It is a secret tunnel to the White House."
"If it's so secret, how do you know about it?"
"This is how I used to visit the President who inaugurated CURE."
Remo was so surprised he said nothing. He was used to Chiun coming up with these surprises. Not Harold Smith.
Chiun closed the vault door behind them. Once it shut, big fluorescent lights came on, revealing a big living area well stocked with food, communications equipment and a small number of beds.
"In the event of a siege of the White House or a nuclear attack in which they cannot be moved to a secure FEMA site in the Maryland mountains, the First Family will stay here," Smith explained, his lemony voice small in the great vault.
An opening on the other side of the vault led into a dark space. A tunnel, smelling faintly of moist brick. Smith led the way.
The tunnel was not straight. It zigzagged, and Remo realized the design was meant to foil pursuers unfamiliar with it.
They walked the length of two blocks. Smith's eyes weren't equal to the gloom, so Remo had to lead him along, directing Smith by the simple expedient of pulling him along by his tie.
"They gave you the key but not the location of the light switch?" Remo grumbled at one point.
"The lights are controlled from the White House end," Smith said.
"It is obvious, as well as wise," said Chiun.
Remo shot the Master of Sinanju a dark look that Smith missed in the murk.
The tunnel led to a thick stainless-steel door. Smith said, "There should be a wheel, Remo. Turn it."
Remo found a wheel that belonged on a submarine bulkhead door and undogged it. The door opened out, and they passed through to what looked like the boiler room of the White House.
"Okay," Remo said tightly, "here comes the tricky part."
"The theater is in the East Wing," said Smith.
"Just point the way," said Remo. Smith went to a boarded-up closet door, unlocked it by pressing a corner lintel, then the door clicked open, boards and all.
Smith beckoned them on.
They found themselves in a corridor so narrow it had to be a hollow space in the walls. As they squeezed along, Remo noticed Smith reach surreptitiously into the watch pocket of his gray vest. Out came a white coffin-shaped pill. Smith made a protective fist around it.
Remo eased up and took Smith by the same wrist, twisting it against the natural flex of the joint. Smith clenched his teeth fiercely, and his fingers went slack.
Remo caught the poison pill in his free hand and released Smith.
"No poison pill until you find my father for me," said Remo.
"What if we are caught?"
"Then it's every man for himself."
Rubbing his wrists angrily, Harold Smith continued leading the way.
The White House was strangely quiet. Occasionally footsteps came to their ears. Smith seemed to guide himself by sense of direction and the touch of his hand on the wall. He led them eastward.
When they emerged into light again, they were standing in an alcove.
"The White House theater is to our left," whispered Smith. "This is the critical stage." He donned a pair of impenetrable sunglasses, adding, "Follow my lead." Then he stepped out.
Remo put on his own sunglasses. Unseen, the Master of Sinanju drew on round smoked glasses of his own.
There was a Secret Service agent standing post before a double set of cream-colored doors.
Smith showed his Secret Service badge and said, "Has the President arrived yet?"
"No, sir. The picture is scheduled for seven sharp."
"The director requested a double-check of the security arrangements," said Smith.
The Secret Service agent reached for his belt radio, and Remo noticed Smith stiffen.
"Damn, I forgot."
"Yes?" said Smith in a too-cool voice.
"We're on radio silence."
"I know," said Smith quickly. "And if we're to check the theater before Big Mac arrives, we must move quickly."
"Right," said the agent, stepping away from the door.