It took a moment for Remo's brain to put a name to the strong odor. Naphthalene.
Then he looked down.
The blue-carpeted steps under his feet looked too new. They were pristine, as if they had never known the regular tread of feet.
Then Remo realized something was missing.
"Damn!" he said, plunging in.
Inside Marine One, the President and First Lady were buckling up.
"There goes my-I mean your-chance for reelection," the First Lady was saying.
"Evacuate!" shouted Remo.
The President and First Lady looked up, eyes going round, faces stark.
"What?"
"This thing is booby-trapped! Get out now!"
They stared at him in disbelief. Remo reached down toward an empty seat that stank of astringent chemicals and tore the cushions open with steel-hard fingers, exposing heavy plastic sacks filled with an evil red fluid. He slashed one open with the edge of a sharp fingernail, and pungent naphthalene flowed out.
"That stuff will go up like flash paper."
Abruptly the rotors wound up. The craft started to rock and lift.
Remo moved in. His fingers grabbed the safety belts, and they parted like cheesecloth.
"C'mon, Chiun," urged Remo.
The Master of Sinanju moved quickly, pushing the stunned First Family out of their seats.
They got them out of the helicopter just as the wheels lifted off. They had to jump from the steps, which were still in the down position and rising off the grass.
The steps pulled away into the night.
"Remo! What is it?" Smith asked hoarsely.
"Look at those steps. Where's the Welcome Aboard Marine One sign?"
"Damn," said Vince Capezzi. "I should have noticed that." Lifting his MAC-11, he added, "We can't let him get away."
"No," said Smith. "We'll have it tracked. It may lead to the conspirators."
But the fake Manne One didn't make it as far as the Ellipse between the White House and the Washington Monument. It was rattling over Constitution Avenue when it burst apart in a flat whoof of a sound. It hung there for an awful, indecisive moment.
In flames, it cascaded to the ground, after which it burned merrily. The black smoke soon carried in their direction, smelling of naphthalene.
The President of the United States stared at the crackling pile of twisted metal and said, "I don't understand ...."
"That, Mr. President," Harold Smith said grimly, "was the ultimate escalation. The real thing."
Then, past the blinking red light atop the white obelisk of the Washington Monument, a clattering noise resolved itself into a great olive-green-and-white military helicopter.
"That looks like Marine One," Vince Capezzi breathed.
"It is," said Remo. "The real one."
Grim-faced, Harold Smith turned to the President and said, "Mr. President, we have just witnessed conclusive proof that the conspiracy to kill you is a massive one, involving many persons prepared to trade their lives for your own."
"Don't I know it," the President said thickly.
"I have a suggestion."
"Go ahead."
"Order Marine One back. Let out word that you've died."
"What good will that do?"
"It may flush the conspirators out into the open."
"You're asking me to lie to the American people."
"I am asking you to save your own life. This conspiracy is deep, broad and well capitalized. It will stop at nothing to unseat you. We cannot unravel it if we are spending all our energy trying to preserve your life."
The First Lady said, "What does the Committee on Urban Refugee Empowerment have to do with any of this?"
She was ignored.
Smith went on, "This conspiracy has a definite goal in mind. Some thing or some aim that can only be achieved by your death. Let's give them what they want and see who steps from the shadows to claim victory."
"Then we will harvest their heads and display them as a warning to any who would contemplate similar perfidy," cried Chiun.
The First Lady regarded the Master of Sinanju with horrified eyes, so he added, "And insure universal health care for one and all!"
The First Lady grabbed the President's sleeve. "Do what he says," she hissed. "He makes perfect sense."
Remo rolled his eyes skyward.
Finally the President of the United States said, "I'm in your capable hands, Smith."
PEPSI DOBBINS was beside herself.
Hunkering down in an ANC broadcast van parked on Pennsylvania Avenue near the White House, she found herself a witness to history with no clue as to what was going on.
She grabbed her walkie-talkie. "Buck. Talk to me. What's happening out there?"
"I got it all on tape," Buck said excitedly.
"What did you get?"
"The Secret Service just shot the shit out of Santa Claus."
"What?"
"But it wasn't really Santa. It was Thrush Limburger in disguise."
"Oh, my God. Did he try to kill the President?"
"That's how it looked."
"The conspiracy thickens."
"That's not all. You remember the old Oriental and the guy with thick wrists from the airport?"
"Yeah."
"They were here. They helped hustle the President off as the shooting started."
"Where did he go? The President, I mean."
"Did you hear that dull thump a moment ago?"
"I did."
"No one's saying, but we think it was Marine One. It blew up."
"I'm shooting toward the Washington Monument right now. I think I was the only guy smart enough to sneak off. Everyone else started taping Thrush Limburger's corpse and asking idiot questions."
"There's no such thing as an idiot question in the pursuit of a story," Pepsie snapped.
"I caught Marine One flying off," Buck said breathlessly. "Then it blew apart and dropped straight down like a flaming sack of potatoes. I'm filming the wreck right now."
"Was the President aboard?"
"He was supposed to be."
"Then he's dead," Pepsie breathed. "He's really dead this time. We've got to go on the air with this."
"They'll never let us. Not after the last time you said he was dead over the air."
"Hold on," Pepsie said. Turning to a technician in the cramped broadcast van, she said, "Can you snoop in on the Secret Service transmission frequency?"
"We're not supposed to."
"That's not what I asked," said Pepsie.
The technician handed Pepsie a set of earphones.
Clapping one earphone to her head, she heard an ominous white noise. There were absolutely no Secret Service transmissions. All was static.
"Buck, what's going on?" Pepsie said into her walkie-talkie.
"White House staffers are booting us off the grounds. They look kinda scared."
"Okay. Meet me at the van."
"You got it."
Grabbing her cellular phone, Pepsie dialed ANC News. "Greg. I'm at the White House. Something big just happened."
"I though you were barred from the ceremony."
"That's why I'm hiding out in the news van. But my camera guy slipped in. Get this, Thrush Limburger just tried to kill the President. But the Secret Service got him first."
"That's what CNN is reporting. Do we have film?"
"Do we ever. But there's more. Marine One lifted off from the South Lawn not two minutes ago and blew up. Isn't that great?"
"CNN didn't report that."
Pepsie burbled excitedly, "I think we have an exclusive."
"Was the President aboard?"
"He was supposed to be," Pepsie said evasively.
"Supposed to be doesn't cut it, Pepsie. You know that."
"Look, we can do a live remote on the crash while the competition is still stuck on the 'cased Santa' angle. This is my big chance."