"An excellent choice, Thrush," said the soft-voiced caller, abruptly hanging up.
The President snapped off the radio. "Did you hear that?"
"Yes," said Smith and Chiun.
"That caller said the medical-industrial complex is after me. How would he know that unless he had inside information?"
"I do not know, Mr. President. But it is not impossible for a crank caller to touch upon the truth unwittingly."
"Do you think the medical-industrial complex is after me?"
"There is no such thing."
"Ever see those anti-health-care TV ads?"
Chiun spoke up. "That man was no crank," he said.
"What do you mean, Master Chiun?" asked Smith.
"Because he asked Thrush Limburger a certain question. "
"What question is that?"
"He asked what kind of animal Thrush would like to be."
"Probably a loud one," laughed the President. But no one else joined him.
A knock came at the door, and Remo's voice called through the panel, "The First Lady is here. Do I let her in or not?"
"Of course you let me in, damn it," the shrill voice of the First Lady said.
"Let her in," said the President in a weary voice.
"Mr. President-" Smith started to say. Then the door opened and the First Lady entered, her hands clutching loops and coils of black electrical cord dotted with red Christmas-tree lights.
"I have a problem with these decorations," she began.
Then she saw the President and the Master of Sinanju on the blue rug and Harold W. Smith trying to look inconspicuous.
"That's the Cure Smith, isn't it?" she asked the President.
"Yes."
"Will someone tell me what Cure is?"
There was an awkward silence lasting some forty seconds. The President threw Harold Smith a look that said, "It's in your court."
"It is an acronym," Smith said, knotting his tie uncomfortably.
"For what?"
"Committee on Urban Refugee Empowerment," Smith said hastily.
"I want to be on it!" the First Lady said quickly.
"I'll arrange it," the President said quickly. "Now, what's your problem?"
"I'm getting ready for the Christmas-tree lighting ceremony tonight-"
"Tonight!"
"Yes, tonight. Don't tell me you've forgotten."
"Damn. That means we'll have to let the press in."
"Not necessarily," said the First Lady, dropping the heavy coil of Christmas-tree lights on the Presidential lap with a rattle of insulated cord.
"What's this?"
"I've decided that we're going to have a multicultural Christmas tree. The first in White House history."
"I never heard of a multicultural Christmas tree," said the President.
"It will represent every ethnic group and creed that makes up the nation. All the trimmings have been handcrafted. But it's these lights I'm concerned about. I had them flown in from California."
The President fingered the tiny light bulbs strung along the cord. They were red but very long and tapered at the end.
"They look like little chili peppers," he said.
"Exactly. They're supposed to represent the Hispanic community, but my press secretary says they might be construed as insensitive. What do you think?"
"I think they're kinda cute," the President admitted.
"Cute, yes. But are they politically correct?"
"Don't ask me. You're the diva of inclusive politics. I'm only Commander in Chief."
"You just don't want to make the decision."
"And you want someone to pass the buck to if it backfires," the President fired back.
"May I make a suggestion?" Harold Smith said. "If you do not wish to offend the Hispanic community, why not leave them off?"
"They'll scream if we ignore them."
"Then a traditional Christmas tree is your only logical alternative."
"There's nothing traditional about this White House," the First Lady snapped, "and if I have any say, there never will be!"
"Who died and made you empress?" muttered the President.
The First Lady's face turned red under her blond bangs, and she made a tiny red mouth in the President's direction.
"You're not going to help me with this, are you?" she told the President.
"Flip a coin," suggested the President.
"Honestly," the First Lady snapped, grabbing up the coils of cord. "How did you ever get to be President?"
The door slammed on the President's "People like you voted me into office."
The door reopened, and the First Lady poked her bangs back in and said, "I almost forgot. Your press secretary is having an acute attack of spin fatigue over this Oswald conspiracy rumor. Maybe you should give a speech tonight or something."
The door slammed.
"I'm going to do better than that," the President said angrily. "I'm going back to Boston to finish my damn speech."
"Mr. President," Harold Smith said gravely, "I think it would be unwise to make a public appearance at this time."
"I can't let Thrush Limburger and the press boot me around like an old football," the President said, rising from the rug. "And I have to continue the push for health-care reform."
"May I ask why?"
The President glanced toward the still-vibrating Oval Office door. "Because my wife will have my butt if I don't."
Arising from the floor like a sunflower lifting toward the sun, the Master of Sinanju intoned, "Beware the Shrill Queen. Ambition smolders in her eyes. For she covets your throne."
"Tell me something I don't already know," the President muttered.
Chapter 24
The director of the Secret Service was manning the electronics-packed nest that was the White House command post when Harold W Smith walked in.
The director looked up, saw Smith and shot out of his seat, leveling an accusing finger. "I checked the Dallas district office. There's a Special Agent Remo Eastwood on file in the personnel records, all right, but nobody up there has ever seen or heard of him. He's a damn ghost!"
"It would have been better had you not checked."
"And Dallas has no records of any Smith."
"That is not true," Smith said coolly.
The director deflated. "All right, there are three Smiths on file in Dallas. Which one are you?"
"That is no longer your concern."
"I'm your fucking superior."
"Technically no. I am retired."
The director of the Secret Service sputtered inarticulately.
"The President has asked that you call him," Smith added.
The director sat down and dialed the President's inhouse line. He was put through immediately.
"Yes, Mr. President?" he asked.
His craggy face paled almost at once. He sat down hard. "I protest in the highest possible terms. Yes, sir, I understand the service did not acquit itself perfectly yesterday, but look, man- I mean, sir-you're still alive. That counts for something, doesn't it?"
The director listened with shoulders slumping like a wire coat hanger being warped. "I understand, Mr. President. I will vacate this office as instructed, but-"
The director stared at the buzzing receiver in his hand.
"Damn! He hung up on me."
"I will be taking over this office for the remainder of the crisis," said Harold Smith.
The director jumped out of his seat. "You can't fool me, Smith. You're not Secret Service. You're CIA. You have spook written all over your smug face."
"Before you go," Harold Smith said crisply, "have the latest reports come in from the FBI forensics lab?"
"On my desk, damn you," said the director.
At the door he paused to snarl, "At least the President is showing some good sense."
"Yes?"
"He asked Secret Service Agent Capezzi to stay on board. He's our best man."
Smith nodded and the door closed. He went to the desk, skimmed the reports and immediately phoned the FBI crime lab.