This Smith was a cold bastard. Not even news of a potential assassination seemed to ruffle his feathers. "Do you know when or where they might strike?" the President asked.
"No, sir, I don't. In matters like these, public events have the greatest chance for success. Were I the assassin, I would choose today's viewing at the Capitol. A public place, impossible to completely monitor with a large crowd of civilians. It would be easy for a professional to blend in with the rest of the mourners and await your arrival."
"But you don't know for sure?"
"As I indicated, no, sir, I do not," Smith said. The President sat up straight at the edge of the bed. "In that case, I'm going, Dr. Smith. You can't tell me when they'll attack, or if they will at all. The press would eat me alive if I didn't go, not to mention the opposition."
There was a little impatient sigh at the other end of the line. "I expected as much," Smith said. "In anticipation, I have sent that special person to protect you. He will arrive shortly, along with his trainer."
"Is that wise?" the President asked.
"Possibly not. But I had to weigh the risk to this agency against the harm that might befall the nation if an assassination against a sitting President were to succeed again. This agency was founded to prevent the nation from either becoming a police state or falling into chaos. Either scenario would be that much closer to reality were another President killed so soon after the last."
The President paused. It was easy to think of himself as just another man. But this Smith was right. The nation had mourned enough in the past decade. In a time rife with turbulence, another assassination might be the thing to finally plunge the nation over the edge.
"I suppose you're right," the President said reluctantly. "When can I expect them?"
"They will be there shortly. I have arranged for them to be part of your personal security detachment. There is no guarantee the attempt will be today-if there is one at all. They will remain with you until we have determined that the crisis has passed."
"Very well," said the President. "Is that all?"
"There is one more thing," Smith said.
"Yes?"
"Good luck, sir."
The dedicated phone went dead in the hand of the President of the United States.
THEIR FALSE Treasury Department IDs got Remo and Chiun through the gates and gained them entry to the White House.
Remo was more impressed with the building than with the President. When the chief executive hustled downstairs, CURE's enforcement arm was like a tourist, looking up at the high ceilings, at portraits and statues.
Remo and Chiun were standing with the rest of the Secret Service detachment. The President seemed to single out the two men with a glance before moving on.
They were outside and piling into cars a minute later. Remo and Chiun were in the back seat of the third sedan behind the presidential limousine. Two regular treasury agents sat in the front.
Once the President was settled into his car, the stream of vehicles and motorcycles began crawling down the drive and out the gate onto Pennsylvania Avenue. The limo followed. Behind it came the rest of the motorcade.
"It looked like he noticed us back there," Remo whispered as their car started off.
"Of course he did," Chiun sniffed. He was tugging at his cuff once more. "Even these ridiculous Western garments cannot conceal the brilliance that is Sinanju."
Chiun was watching official Washington through tempered glass. As seats of power went, he had seen worse. The place seemed well planned, with wide-open spaces between clean buildings and tidy monuments. From what he's seen of this America, he'd give it a hundred years before the place was in ruins, overrun by hordes of Canadian invaders.
"Maybe," Remo said. "Or maybe Smith let him know we were coming. I guess if we've got a presidential audience we should be on our toes, huh?"
Chiun's entire face puckered. "Do not presume to urge the Master to caution, ghost-skin. If there comes a point I am not on my toes, it will only be because clumsy you is standing on them."
Remo sank back in his seat, the very soul of confidence. "No need to worry about me. I realized back at the airport that I was right before. I'm a great student."
"You should aspire to be adequate," Chiun said as the Washington Monument slipped behind the car. "And even then prepare yourself for bitter disappointment."
"Tell that to that guy I zapped," Remo said. He thrust his hand at an imaginary air target. "Zing, bap, boom and he's gone. With moves like that, we've got nothing to worry about. I'm gonna save the day today."
"If there is credit to be had, it is mine," Chiun said, "for the real greatness lies in my instruction. It is not impressive when a man is taught to sing. I, on the other hand, have taught a pig to sing. Even a few sour notes amid the usual grunts and oinks are miraculous."
"I'm not a pig," said Remo.
"Tell that to someone who hasn't seen you eat."
"Anyway, teaching, learning. Wherever it comes from, this is great stuff. You should bottle it. I guess I'm prepared for anything that comes along, huh?"
Chiun's troubled thoughts were on the description Smith had given him of the superhuman deaths delivered to the three United States senators. Deaths with a Sinanju signature.
"First fat, then thin."
"What?" asked Remo.
Chiun looked up. Remo was sitting across from him, a questioning look on his youthful face. "Mind your own business," Chiun grumbled. The boy had learned so much in so little time. Even now his breathing was right, his heart and lungs strong. He was centered in himself as he had been taught.
It was wrong. He was not of the village. Worse, he was a white. Yet the spark of something was there. He was everything Chiun could have hoped for in a pupil and nothing he had ever expected.
And then there was the "right" student.
First fat, then thin. That was the order when one Master of Sinanju issued a challenge to another. The man at the junkyard had been fat. Thin should have been next. But the man at the airport had been short.
This was what Nuihc thought of his teacher. Chiun was small. A message of disrespect to an unworthy Master who had outlived his time.
The Capitol Building had risen up from the trees. The presidential motorcade sped up to it. A somber line of mourners snaked along sidewalks and clogged roads.
"What are you so quiet for all of a sudden?" Remo asked abruptly as they drove around to the entrance. Chiun turned his level gaze on his pupil.
"Be careful, Remo," he warned darkly. And in the quiet of his heart the old Korean was surprised by the depth of his concern.
Chapter 27
Dr. Harold W. Smith placed the small black-and-white television on the edge of his oak desk.
The TV had been a gift with the purchase of his station wagon. The times required that he have an office television. The enticement of a free TV was the reason Smith had chosen that particular automobile dealership.
A piece of aluminum foil from the Folcroft cafeteria was wrapped around the tops of both silver rabbit ears. Smith fiddled with the antenna to clear up the staticky image.
When the picture cleared, Smith saw the familiar interior of the Capitol rotunda. A pair of gilded coffins sat in the center of the floor. A slow-moving line of men and women trudged between them.
The image chilled Smith. It was too familiar. Too reminiscent of a time not long enough ago.
As the network anchorman droned on over the black-and-white image, Smith sat down in his leather chair.
Near the blue contact phone sat a silver spoon and a small bowl of prune-whip yogurt. Both were untouched. Smith had asked Miss Purvish to bring him the food from downstairs but found when it arrived that he had no appetite.
Under ordinary circumstances he would have let appropriate police and security agencies deal with the threat to the President. But these were not ordinary times for America. The bedrock on which she had been founded had turned to quicksand. It was far worse than it had been when Smith was selected to head up CURE nearly a decade before. The once-great nation seemed to be faltering. Even something as straightforward as television news was rife with subtext.