His skull should have caved in. Instead, the cab rocked on its wheels. Santa reared back bellowing and tried again. This time the wheels on one side left the ground. They fell back complaining.
The third time, Santa screamed in defiance, his white beard whipping wildly with each jerk of his head, and the van went over on its side with a resounding crash.
That caught the attention of the press. The blaze of videocam lights swung their way, and Remo and Chiun broke in opposite directions to escape being filmed.
Remo called into his wrist mike, "Capezzi. We got a rogue Santa out here."
"A what?"
"The Santa. He's off his rocker. Better get Big Mac out of here."
"Roger," said Vince Capezzi. Into his hand mike, he said, "Marine One. Where are you?"
"ETA ten minutes," a thin voice said.
"Roger."
THE WHITE HOUSE lawn became bedlam as the press turned the glare of their lights on the weird figure of Santa Claus climbing atop an upended microwave van and throwing his head back to the moonlit sky, bellowing and screaming and growling in a way that froze everyone's blood.
Especially the President's.
"What the hell is wrong with that guy?" he asked. Vince Capezzi laid a hand on the President's shoulder. "Mr. President, I think we should get you to the Rose Garden right away. Marine One is en route."
"If you say so," the President said worriedly.
"No," the First Lady shouted. "He can't go now. He'll look like a coward running from danger."
Then the Santa reared back and began stomping the flat side of the microwave van. The steel panel began to dent up under his boots. The metal complained. The dent grew wider, then deeper, and even the press who had surged closer to get better coverage found themselves falling back.
In that moment Remo started in again, one hand a spear, prepared to deliver a death blow nothing living could withstand.
The snipers started firing before he had cleared half the space.
The shots came from opposite directions-one from the Treasury Building, the other from the Executive Office Building.
Transfixed in the camera lights, the figure of Santa Claus started coming apart. One arm, in the act of being flung up, kept on going, separated at the shoulder. The arm lanced like a hank of ham bone, and the color of its blood was indistinguishable from the scarlet sleeve.
Rounds began ripping into his back and coming out the paunch of his stomach, carrying stringy shreds of viscera with them.
The Santa gave a last trumpeting of pain and horror and fell where he stood.
The dented white van began turning red in a puddle around the quivering bulk.
But it wasn't over yet. Santa struggled to rise, but only the head obeyed. The reddish eyes, full of pain, looked out over its tormentors.
They saw nothing except a darkening light. Then the head fell with a heavy thud. The chest continued to heave like a great red bellows.
"Did you see that?" Remo whispered to Chiun.
"Yes. Its eyes looked into mine at the last."
"Its? You mean his."
"That was no man, but a musth, wounded, confused and maddened with pain."
"A what?"
"When Hannibal of Carthage crossed the Alps, it was on the back of one such as this. The Greekling Alexander defeated the Persians with great armies of such beasts."
"Are we talking rogue elephant here?"
Chiun indicated the white beard slowly turning crimson, saying, "That is its trunk. Notice the great ears, the small eyes. When attacked, it used its head as a ram. It is an elephant."
"That explains the way he charged around," said Remo, "but not much else."
The press was creeping around the other side of the van, so Remo and Chiun slipped up to the dead hulk in the Santa suit.
Remo plucked off the stocking cap and beard, exposing smooth black hair. The blood-soaked whiskers came off with a snap of a rubber band.
"Look, Remo! It is Thrush."
Remo canted his head to see.
"Damn. Thrush Limburger. The press will have a field day with this."
The great body shuddered and gave out a final pungent exhalation.
"Whew!" said Remo, backing away. "That's gotta be the worst case of peanut breath west of Africa."
"India. He thought he was an Indian elephant."
Then the clatter of helicopter rotor blades made the suddenly still night air quiver and shake.
Remo looked toward the Washington Monument, a brilliant stone finger behind the White House, and told Chiun, "That's Marine One. We'd better get a move on if we're going to Boston with the President."
Chapter 29
Secret Service Agent Vince Capezzi heard the clatter of Marine One's rotors as an answer to a silent prayer.
"This way, Mr. President," he urged, hustling the Chief Executive from the podium. The First Lady followed, complaining, "This is going to look awful on CNN."
They entered the White House and walked quickly through to the South Portico. Capezzi checked his watch. Marine One was five minutes ahead of schedule. It was one of those minor miracles that happen when they are most needed.
"We'll have you in the air shortly," he told the President, and they stepped out onto the South Lawn.
The blazing floodlights limned Marine One as she settled heavily into the Kentucky bluegrass of the South Lawn, and her green-and-white shape had never been more welcome, Capezzi thought. The rotors continued winding as the bluecarpeted steps dropped into place.
Retired Secret Service Agent Smith stepped out from nowhere and said, "You must hurry, sir."
"Smith, you come with us."
"I cannot, Mr. President. I must remain here to continue the investigation. But Remo and Chiun will accompany you to Boston. You will be in good hands."
"I know."
The President started up the blue-carpeted steps, the First Lady holding his arm. Their faces were drained white under the glare of the floodlights.
Vince Capezzi, his MAC-11 at the ready, covered the stairs.
REMO CAME AROUND the corner of the White House in the shelter of the open breezeway, Chiun pumping along at his side.
"There's Smitty," he said. "Looks like the President's on board already."
Chiun nodded. They crossed the rotor-wash-flattened lawn to the waiting helicopter.
"Stay with the President every step of the way," Smith told Remo over the whine of the impatiently turning rotors.
"Gotcha," said Remo.
"No harm will befall the puppet while Sinanju stands beside him," cried Chiun in a firm voice.
"Shh," said Smith, indicating Vince Capezzi with a tilt of his head. "Security."
"Advertising always pays," said Chiun.
Remo started up the stairs, but Chiun blocked him.
"As Reigning Master, I have the honor of going first."
"Suit yourself," said Remo. Chiun floated up the steps, and Remo turned to Vince Capezzi, "You go next."
Capezzi climbed aboard, relief making his face go slack.
Remo turned to Harold Smith, "You know that Santa?"
"Yes?"
"I pulled his cap and whiskers off. Guess who he was?"
"Who?"
"Thrush Limburger."
Smith groaned.
"It's probably another double," said Remo.
"Let us hope so," said Harold Smith fervently.
Then Remo started up the stairs.
The pilot was looking over his shoulder at Remo through the Plexiglas side port. Something about his face made Remo pause.
Something was wrong. Something serious. He wore the impenetrable Ray-Ban Aviators of a Secret Service agent. But on his head sat a black baseball cap emblazoned with the letters CIA.
Remo stopped.
"What is wrong?" Smith called.
Remo said nothing, but his senses were keying up. The rotor noise drowned out any subtle infrasounds. A pungent scent came to his nostrils over the residual scent of gasoline. The smell resembled gasoline, but wasn't. Not quite. It was an astringent smell Remo associated with dry-cleaning establishments.