"If the rejection problem could be solved, yes."
"Am I correct in assuming that such operations would require sophisticated techniques and state-of-the-art surgical facilities?"
"You are."
"Is there anything else?"
"The man was asthmatic. An inhaler was found on his person containing a cartridge of a common antiinflammatory steroid called Vanceril."
"Are you certain it is Vanceril?"
"That is what the cartridge says."
"Messenger the cartridge to the FBI crime lab and have them compare it to a sample already in their hands. They should match."
"At once."
"Thank you," said Harold Smith, hanging up. The phone rang again instantly.
"FBI. We have no fingerprint match on the Boston shooter."
"Unfortunate."
"But the California driver's license found on the body checks out as authentic. His name really is Alek James Hidell. We're trying to develop this information further."
"Get back to me when you have something solid."
Smith hung up again. He faced his screen frowning.
The conspiracy was frightening in its rough outlines. From the surgical procedure to the clever replica of Marine One, a small fortune had been expended in setting up the President. But for what? And why had everything been filmed?
Remo Williams poked his head in the door.
"How's it coming?"
Smith rubbed his tired eyes. "This conspiracy, whatever it is, required a small fortune to mount and a small army to implement. How could they possibly engineer such an operation without leaks or defections? It makes no sense."
"Speaking of making no sense, ANC says Pepsie Dobbins is about to go on the air and blow the whole thing wide open."
"Pepsie Dobbins..." Smith said strangely. "She broke the story about the Mannlicher rifle, claiming a Secret Service source. I would like to know her source in the service."
"I'd offer to squeeze the truth out of her, but thanks to Chiun we've been made as far as Pepsie is concerned."
"I did no such thing," a squeaky voice said.
The Master of Sinanju floated into the room, looking stern.
"I never mentioned the organization, O Emperor of Discernment."
Smith sighed. "I cannot help but think that the motive lies in the letters RX, which were scratched in the shell casing the Oswald replica fired," he said.
"But why would the conspirators try to claim credit for the ambush?" asked Remo.
"To strike fear into the hearts of their enemies," said Chiun. "It is both obvious and logical."
Smith shook his gray head soberly. "No one in their right mind would dare claim responsibility. The retaliation would be massive. No, the true meaning of the letters RX must be to deflect suspicion away from the actual conspirators."
"Toward what-the medical industry?" asked Remo.
"Toward the opponents of health-care reform," said Smith.
"Like who? Gila Gingold and Thrush Limburger? No way. I don't buy it. Those guys were being framed."
"It is a baffling conundrum," admitted Harold Smith. "If only I could glean some meaning from the letters RX."
UPSTAIRS, in the White House family quarters, the President of the United States sat at a private desk out of sight of the windows and prying camera lenses, doodling the letters RX on a sheet of Presidential stationery.
He tried reversing them, stacking them, but the letters continued to mock him with their cryptic insolvability.
"Wish I could make some sense of all this," he muttered.
"You can start by explaining something to me," the First Lady said angrily. She had just walked in.
The President turned in his chair. "What is it, honey?"
"Don't you 'honey' me. I checked the Federal Staff Directory. There is no Committee on Urban Refugee Empowerment."
"Could we do this another time? I'm trying to solve a mystery."
"You and your mysteries," said the First Lady, looking over the President's shoulder. "What's that?"
"They found it scratched on the bullet casing up in Boston. But nobody can figure out what it's supposed to mean."
"Maybe they're the initials of an old political rival," the First Lady suggested.
"Not likely. All anyone can come up with is that it's the medical symbol for the word prescription. But what does that mean?"
"Maybe it's another synonym for prescription. You know, a logic-chain sort of deal."
"Good thinking." The President began writing. "RX. Prescription. Remedy...."
The First Lady snapped her fingers. "Cure! Cure is another word."
The President of the United States froze in his chair.
Then his press secretary called through the door and said, "ANC has a special report coming on. It looks important."
The First Lady snatched up a remote and pointed it toward a bookcase TV set.
The picture resolved itself into the serious figure of Pepsie Dobbins, standing against a backdrop of the White House.
"I thought the press was ordered to stay off Pennsylvania Avenue," the First Lady complained.
The President started for the nearest window when the First Lady yanked him back. "You want your fool head blown off?"
"This is Pepsie Dobbins," said the image on the screen, "standing before the mausoleumlike nerve center of the nation's government. Not since the dark days of Houston-"
An off-sereen voice went, "Psst. Dallas."
"-Not since Dallas has the nation cowered under a dark cloud as it has today. Unofficially the President of the United States is dead. Unofficially we have a new President. But no one in official Washington will speak on the record. In the absence of official facts, it is time the truth came out. Two days ago I broke the exclusive story, still unconfirmed by the Secret Service, that the rifle used to assassinate the President in Boston was identical to the weapon Lee Harvey Oswald slayed-"
"That's slew," an offstage voice hissed.
"-slew President John Fitzsimmons Kennedy."
The offstage voice groaned.
Pepsie took a deep breath and went on.
"ANC News can now report that the mastermind behind this conspiracy is this man."
A floating graphic appeared in one corner of the screen. It showed a bestubbled face under sunglasses and a black baseball cap with the letters CIA stitched across the front in red.
"He calls himself Director X, and in an exclusive interview with me yesterday, this man claimed inside knowledge of the conspiracy. ANC News is prepared to state on the record that this man is the chief conspirator. And despite his clumsy attempts to suggest CIA involvement in the murder of this President, the finger or guilt points in another direction entirely."
Pepsie paused. In a low, dramatic voice, she added, "Director X is no less than the director of the United States Secret Service!"
"Did you hear that?" the First Lady gasped. "She makes sense. Their fingerprints are all over this deal."
But the President of the United States was looking down at the sheet of paper in his trembling hands and a notation in his own handwriting that read-
And he remembered that the President who had founded CURE had himself been assassinated. That he himself had until the other day threatened to shut CURE down forever. And that the man who headed CURE was its director.
IN THE BASEMENT command post of the White House, Harold W. Smith watched with growing interest as Pepsie Dobbins continued her indictment of the Presidential protective service.
"This President was targeted because through his valiant attempts at health-care reform he became a threat to the establishment."
"Wasn't that what that crazy guy who called Thrush Limburger said?" Remo asked. "The establishment was out to nail the President?"
"I told you so," said Chiun.
"Shh," said Smith.
Pepsie went on. "I can now reveal the existence of a shadow government that has manipulated Presidential strings going back an unknown number of administrations. Seeing they could not control the late President, they snuffed him out like a candle."