Everyone looked at the little man named Chiun blankly.
"But it's a stray tabby cat," the director said.
Chiun said, "It may have been born a tabby, but it died a tiger."
No one had much to add to that, so the director signaled for the second tape.
Because it was night, the surveillance video cameras recorded night-vision images that played back a grainy greenish black.
It was clear enough to show vividly the sight of what appeared to be Congressman Gila Gingold chasing Secret Service agents across the White House lawn and later attacking the President himself. On all fours.
Once the President hit the lawn, the figures blended together.
"I count two extra people," the director of the Secret Service said, brow furrowing.
"Shadows," said Harold Smith, looking to Remo and Chiun.
"No. Run that over."
"Forget it," the President cut in. "Have that tape destroyed. It's not exactly anyone's finest hour."
After that, there was an awkward silence.
The director offered, "Congressman Gingold is under observation. Maybe we'll have some kind of explanation in a few days."
Again Special Agent Eastwood asked his companion, "What do you think?"
"That was no man," intoned Chiun. "That was a gravel worm. "
"What's a gravel worm?"
"The Egyptians of old called them gravel worms because when their eggs hatched, they resembled gravel come to life as they crawled up from the gravel beds of the Nile."
"I still don't know what a gravel worm is," said Remo.
"In some lands they are called alligators. In others, the word is crocodile."
Jack Murtha snapped his fingers. "I knew Gingold reminded me of something. He reminded me of an alligator!" He ran over and reran a portion of the tape. "Look, see the way he came splashing out of the fountain? That's how an alligator runs."
"You mean he was trying to drag me into the fountain with his teeth?" the President demanded.
"That's how they kill prey. By dragging them into the water and holding them under till they drown."
The President of the United States shuddered visibly and uncontrollably.
"What would make Congressman Gila Gingold think he was a alligator?" asked retired Special Agent Smith.
"The same evil that convinced a simple tabby cat that it was a tiger," said Chiun.
"I would like to examine that cat," said Smith.
The cat was brought over from the FBI testing lab in a carrier cage. It had already begun to stiffen.
"I can't get over how much that looks like Socks," the President said glumly.
"Did I mention we found evidence that the cat was dyed to match Socks's markings?" the director asked casually.
"No, you did not," the President said tightly.
"Actually it was the FBI forensics lab that uncovered it," the director added hastily. "We have so much stuff coming in here, we're just shipping it right on over to the Fantasy Factory for analysis."
"Fantasy Factory?" asked the President.
"Secret Service Intelligence Division. They're the best, Mr. President. They spitball every conceivable scenario. If sense can be made of all these events, they'll do it."
Special Agent Smith had withdrawn the dead cat from the carrier cage and was going through its fur with his fingers. Near the top of the head where the fur was black, he paused, separating the stiffening hairs.
"Find something, Smith?" asked the President.
"A scar. Perfectly circular."
Everyone gathered around to see. It was dime-sized patch of whitish scar tissue.
"Looks surgical," muttered Remo.
"The FBI missed this," said Smith.
"Shame on them," the director said smugly.
Smith looked up. "Where is the cat's collar?"
"FBI must still have it"
"It should be examined."
"I'm sure that's being done right now," the director said, rocking on his heels. So far, this was going smoothly. The FBI was catching most of the heat.
"And Gila Gingold's hair should be examined for a surgical mark such as this," said Smith.
"What?"
"If such a mark is found, it will be incontrovertible evidence of a conspiracy to assassinate the President."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. We have no evidence of any such conspiracy. Not in Boston. Not in Washington. At least, not officially."
"What do you mean by not officially?" the President demanded.
The director lost his composure. "I mean, sir, simply that there are Secret Service procedures we follow, and crying wolf isn't part one of them. And I'm getting tired of this dried-up retirement case barging into my investigation, Dallas experience or not."
"Do not speak to me that way," warned the tiny Asian Chiun.
"I was referring to Smith."
"And do not speak to Smith that way," said Chiun.
The director towered over the little Asian. "Who made you cock of the walk?"
"The Master before me."
Before the director could say anything further, the President noticed the TV set. It had been left on and was tuned into a broadcast channel. Congressman Gila Gingold's brick red face filled the screen. There was a chyron in one corner of the screen. It said Live.
"What's he doing on the air live?" the President blurted.
"What's he doing out of St. Elizabeth's?" the director sputtered.
An agent turned up the sound.
". . . demand that the White House officially apologize for floating the obviously untrue story of my institutionalization. A story put out in the obvious and blatant attempt to discredit me."
The camera zoomed past Gila Gingold to a man sprawled on a hospital bed, sleeping on his stomach.
"Which is which?" asked the President.
"The one on his stomach is the gravel worm," said Chiun. "He thinks he is sunning himself."
The camera returned to Gila Gingold's glowering face, and Pepsie Dobbins's disembodied voice asked, "Congressman, why do you suppose the White House has led the general public to believe you attacked the President tonight?"
"Obviously my successful efforts to lead the charge against their universal health-care program in Congress is the chief motivation here."
"And who specifically?"
"I won't name names-except to point out that everyone knows the First Lady is point man on health care."
"Thank you, Congressman Gingold."
Pepsie Dobbins turned to the camera and all but blocked the view of Congressman Gila Gingold.
"Tonight all Washington wonders if the fight over universal health care has reached a new low in political brawling or broken out into open warfare."
An off-screen anchor's voiced asked, "Pepsie, first of all welcome back to ANC News."
"Thank you."
"Secondly, what can you add to the Boston angle to this story?"
"This is no Boston angle," the Secret Service director sputtered.
Then Pepsie Dobbins spoke the words that made the room spin around the Secret Service director's head.
"I have this from a source within the Secret Service itself. The rifle used in the attempt on the President's life tonight was a Mannlicher-Carcano 6.5-caliber military rifle, serial number C2766. This is the same rifle used to assassinate President Kennedy in Dallas, Texas, more than thirty years ago."
"Pepsie, this is stunning. What does it mean?"
"It means," said Pepsie Dobbins, her tomcat eyes bright, "that I may be the next Steinway. Or Steinward. You know."
"I mean," the anchor persisted, "what does this mean to the story?"
"That there is an open conspiracy to kill the President and it has roots that go back eight administrations."
In the White House Secret Service command post, all heads turned toward the director, and all eyes locked with his. They were not happy eyes. The director sympathized. He imagined his own eyes were looking extremely unhappy right about now.