"Only for you, pal."
And while everyone watched with furrowing brows, including the owner of the finger, Remo gave Hardy Bricker's wrist a sharp inward push.
The index finger plunged into Bricker's soft brain all the way up to third joint.
Bricker's right eye bugged out of its socket. His entire body shook. But he didn't attempt to extract his finger from his brain. He couldn't. Neither was working anymore.
They left Hardy Bricker kneeling at the eternal flame, where he would be later found-the first human being in recorded history to commit suicide by ramming his index finger into his own skull, a mystery for the ages, never to be solved.
AS THEY WALKED THROUGH Arlington National Cemetery, Chiun asked, "Was all that cretin said true, Remo?"
"Yeah," Remo said glumly. "I heard Bricker was in town and I was sick of all those movies of his where he blamed every bad thing that ever happened in the world on American government conspiracies. I figured if I put him out to pasture, that would be the end of his propaganda campaign. I never told Smitty."
"Emperor Smith will be displeased," Chiun said gravely. "Even more displeased than he is over my slip of the tongue where this unimportant woman is concerned."
"Look, I need Smith to help find my parents. He can't know about this."
"Nor will he."
Remo looked relieved.
"Provided certain persons show certain other persons proper gratitude according to the season," added Chiun.
Remo sighed. "Just name your price."
"I will," Chiun said thinly, regarding Pepsie with narrow eyes. "Once we are through with unimportant details."
Remo and Chiun loaded Pepsie Dobbins into the borrowed police car, and she asked, "What happens to me?"
"The same thing that happened to Bricker the first time," said Remo.
"What happened to him the first time?" asked Pepsie.
A long-nailed hand the color of old ivory drifted up to Pepsie Dobbins's shoulder and squeezed once. She instantly forgot the question. Then her mind went dark.
Just before the coming of darkness, a squeaky voice said, "This time I will do it and no one will undo it."
WHEN PEPSIE WOKE UP, she was sleeping in the back seat of a police car parked outside of the ANC Washington news bureau and, head in a fog, she stumbled into the building.
Her news director found her wandering the halls and said, "'There you are. Where have you been?"
"Oh, hi, Greg. I think I've been in a daze."
"That's the understatement of the turn of the century," Greg said bitterly. "Better sit down." Pepsie sat. The bare floor was not as comfortable as she'd hoped.
"Do you want the good news first or the bad?"
"What's the good?"
"The President's not dead."
Pepsie made a confused face. "Isn't that the bad news?"
"No."
"Okaaaay. So what's the bad?"
"CNN is showing a tape found at Kennedy's grave where they found that wacko film director Hardy Bricker, dead with his finger in his brain."
"Huh?"
"He committed suicide, though no one can figure out how. He was behind everything."
"It's bad that we lost the story, isn't it?" Pepsie said dimly.
"It's worse that we declared the President dead twice in forty-eight hours. I've been fired. And the only reason I haven't left the building is that I had something to do first."
"What's that?"
"Firing you."
"Oh," said Pepsie Dobbins, who still didn't get it all, but one day would.
Chapter 33
In the White House basement command post, Harold Smith watched the confession of Academy Award-winning Hollywood director Hardy Bricker on CNN. It was being shown for the fourth time.
"Incredible," he said. "It was all a film. No wonder the President was not killed outright the first time. There wouldn't be a story otherwise."
Smith turned in his chair to face Remo and Chiun. "You did an excellent job," he said. "From identifying Bricker as the mastermind to dealing with the Pepsie Dobbins problem."
"Actually Chiun deserves most of the credit," said Remo.
"I taught him everything he knows," added Chiun blandly.
"And CURE is off the hook now that Bricker confessed that RX did in fact symbolize the medical community he was trying to frame, along with Congressman Gingold and Thrush Limburger, among others."
"Another mission successfully completed, and another President saved," Remo said brightly. "All in the line of duty."
"The Secret Service has confiscated the tapes found in Bricker's hotel room," said Smith.
"That ties up that loose end," Remo said, grinning fixedly.
"There is only one thing," said Smith.
Remo and Chiun looked blank.
"The script. They could find no trace of it."
"Oh, that," said Remo. "Bricker had it on him."
"Where is it now?"
Remo hesitated. "I gave it to Chiun."
Smith directed his gaze at the Master of Sinanju. "Master Chiun?"
"Pah, I threw it away."
"Why? It was evidence."
"It was the most inept script I ever read," said the Master of Sinanju. "I was not even mentioned."
Harold Smith looked blank. They stared at one another, all equally blank of face until Smith cleared his throat and said, "Now that the threat to the President is suppressed, it is time we left the White House the way we came in."
"Like thieves in the night?" asked Chiun.
"Security," said Smith, rising to go. "And we have much to do, starting with locating Uncle Sam Beasley, who is still at large."
"No," said Remo. "Starting with finding my parents."
"I will do my best," Smith said.
They followed Harold Smith to the basement boiler room and the secret tunnel to the Treasury Building at a careful distance.
"Remember," Remo whispered to Chiun. "You promise never to tell Smith that I was the one who set Bricker off."
"You will bear that burden to the end of your days!'
"Okay, I'll bear it. But mum's the word."
"And you in return will cook every meal for the next three thousand years."
"You said two thousand," Remo hissed.
"I am including your afterlife in the Christian place of atonement. I will visit you there often when we are both dead."
"I'm sure I'll appreciate the company," Remo said dryly.
"Just remember to steam the rice, not boil it like a lazy white."
"For the next two thousand years or in the afterlife?"
"Both."
As they entered the tunnel under the White House, Remo laughed softly and guiltily.
"Merry Feast of the Pig, Little Father," Remo said warmly.
"The same to you, counterschmuck."