"Of course I don't trust them to give the real story," Ronaldman sniffed. "But they claim he only bumped his head. There were early reports that his brain condition had somehow been miraculously healed, but I don't buy it. Propaganda. Plain and simple. Everyone inside the Beltway knows he had Alzheimer's when he was in the White House. If they don't know, I tell them."
As the reporter was speaking, Chiun surreptitiously signaled Remo. Pointing at Ronaldman's toupee, he covered his mouth with one hand, stifling a silent laugh.
"Knock it off, Chiun," Remo groused.
Sensing movement, Ronaldman twisted sharply to Chiun. He found the Master of Sinanju standing placidly, hands clasped behind his back. Face growing even more suspicious, the reporter turned back to Remo.
"So, as far as you know, he's fine," Remo pressed.
"He's dead," Ronaldman insisted. "About a hundred of those government cars showed up here around seven this morning. They're part of his funeral procession."
"Government cars?" Remo asked. "Are you sure?"
"I've been in Washington long enough to know what G-men drive," Ronaldman replied aridly. Satanic eyebrows rising in disdain, he turned from his insulting visitor.
Remo frowned at that information. Would so many government vehicles show up in the wake of a simple accident for a man who hadn't been President for more than a decade? Only if he had something important to tell them.
Remo's worried thoughts were of CURE as he turned to Chiun. "Let's go, Little Father," he said tightly.
Walking briskly, Remo and the Master of Sinanju headed for the hospital doors. They had gone only a few paces when Remo noticed something in Chiun's hands.
It was flat, black and shiny. And hairy.
"What are you doing with that?" Remo demanded. He nodded to Stan Ronaldman's wig, which dangled like a harpooned rat from one of the Master of Sinanju's long fingernails.
"He annoyed me," Chiun replied flatly.
"Dammit, Chiun, he annoys everybody." Remo shot a look back to the news van. Ronaldman was as bald as a plucked chicken. He fussed around the open door of the van, pale head slathered in dry glue, oblivious to what had transpired. The reporter had yet to notice the draft on his scalp.
A crowd of smiling gawkers was beginning to form.
"Is this some kind of latent hostility from this whole Die Down fiasco?" Remo whispered harshly.
"Latent?" Chiun asked blandly. "Forgive me, Remo. I thought I was being obvious."
"Har-de-har-har," Remo said, voice hushed. "Now get rid of that thing before we have to spray you for chiggers."
"It does look diseased," Chiun said, examining his prize. "Very well. But I do not want to hear a complaint when you get nothing on your next birthday."
With a snap of his wrist, he launched the toupee back in the direction from whence they'd come. The hairpiece soared like a flung Frisbee. It ate up the distance in an instant. With a thick splat, it attached itself like a remora over the C in the network logo on the side of the news van.
When Ronaldman turned toward the odd sound, he saw what looked like a giant, flattened tarantula glued to the truck's side. Only after he saw his own reflection in the glistening black surface of the nylon hair did he realize what it was. His eyes grew as wide as fried eggs.
"Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!" the reporter screamed. Desperate, he flung one hand, his arm, his necktie, anything he could up over his head, even as he unstuck the wig from the side of the truck. Wilted toupee in hand, he dove inside the van amid a chorus of laughter from the gathered media.
Remo turned from the rocking van, his eyes flat. "This an example of the new you?" he asked dryly.
"Do not worry, Remo," Chiun assured him. "Deep down, I am still the same person I always was."
Spinning on his heel, the old man marched toward the main entrance.
"That's what worries me," Remo muttered.
He trailed the Master of Sinanju through the throng of press to the hospital.
Chapter 9
According to Smith, the former President was in a private east-wing suite on the eighth floor. Remo intended to ride the elevator up to eight, but the car had other plans. It stopped on the sixth floor. The doors slid open on the solemn face of a muscular Secret Service agent. A thin white cord ran from jacket to ear.
"I'm sorry, but you can't go any higher," the agent insisted.
"Sure, I can," Remo said.
He pressed the button for the eighth floor, and the doors began to slide shut. The Secret Service agent pushed them back open.
"The eighth floor has been evacuated."
"But Aunt Iggy's expecting us," Remo informed him.
"There's been an emergency," the agent explained. "A gas leak."
"Sounds like Aunt Iggy." Remo nodded to Chiun.
"Stop being stupid," Chiun said. He jabbed a nail-into the eighth-floor button. The doors slid silently shut ...and promptly opened once more.
"The elevators will not function above this level," the agent informed them, "Because of the gas leak, floors seven through ten have been completely evacuated. If you're looking for a patient, I'd advise you to try the main desk."
Remo shook his head. "Nothing's ever easy," he mumbled. "And next time, I'd suggest the brain trust at Treasury come up with a better cover story. If the Secret Service is worried about gas leaks, you could've stayed in Washington. After his regular six Big Mac breakfast, the guy in the White House has it coming out both ends."
At Remo's mention of the Secret Service, the agent was instantly alert. A hand darted beneath his jacket.
Before the man even touched the butt of his automatic, Remo's own hand flew forward. He pinched a spot at the agent's elbow, locking the man's arm in place.
Desperate, the Secret Service man clamped on the wrist microphone in his other hand. It wasn't there. Trailing wires, the unit had been plucked from his belt. The earpiece came loose with a loud pop. When the agent glanced up, Chiun was examining the radiomicrophone.
"Are you able to hear The Jack Benny Program on this device?" he asked.
"You men are in deep trouble," the Secret Service agent threatened in reply. He yanked at his frozen arm. It wouldn't budge.
"No, Little Father," Remo supplied.
"A shame," Chiun said, shaking his head. "I used to listen to his program many years ago in Sinanju. He was quite amusing. Although Rochester was the true star."
With a blur of tapered fingers, he smashed the entire radio transceiver to shards.
"There's no way out," the agent warned. "Give it up."
"In a sec," Remo promised. "Questions first." As the Secret Service agent complained, Remo used his elbow grip to bounce the man into a nearby room. Two vacant beds with crisp white sheets were pushed against the wall.
"Okay, what's the deal?" he demanded after the Master of Sinanju closed the door behind them. "The guy bumped his head. I'm assuming you aren't all here to deliver aspirin."
The agent refused to reply. Screwing his mouth tightly shut, he leveled his eyes on the closed door. Remo pinched the agent's elbow.
Bolts of white-hot fiery acid burst from the joint, exploding out into his extremities. He gasped in pain.
"The old President was kidnapped," the man blurted.
Remo's stomach tightened. "Kidnapped? When?"
"Hours ago. Early morning." The agent's eyes were watering.
Remo glanced at the Master of Sinanju. "Looks like this is bigger than we thought," he said grimly.
"Why is that?" Chiun sniffed. "If one of your rulers is missing, vote yourselves another. Every time I turn around, you people are anointing a new one. What this nation needs is the stability only a lifelong despot can bring."
Remo wished he could share the old Korean's cavalier attitude. He turned his attention back to the Secret Service man. "Any leads?" he pressed, squeezing tighter.