Target of opportunity, p.17
Target of Opportunity, page 17
“You mean the fat lady sings,” corrected Remo.
Chiun shrugged as if the distinction were utterly unimportant.
“Go away,” said the President.
Harold Smith leaned back in his chair. Removing his rimless glasses, he rubbed red-rimmed gray eyes. His face was three shades grayer than normal, an indication of his extreme fatigue.
“Mr. President,” he began, “I can only tell you what a collation of these reports suggests.”
“I’m listening,” said the President.
“The man claiming to be Alek James Hidell bears body scars identical to those on the body of Lee Harvey Oswald. His fingerprints also match those on file for Oswald. His rifle is identical to Oswald’s weapon.”
“Then Oswald tried to kill me?”
“Not necessarily. The rifle is identical, but it is a replica. The actual Oswald rifle is still with the national archives, where it has been since the 1960s. This suggests that the assassin may also have been a replica.”
“What if it was the real Oswald, or the real Hidell?”
“Remotely possible, sir. But consider. Every human element of this bizarre web of events has been a replica. A replica Oswald. A replica Gingold. Even a replica Socks the cat.”
“Then the same people that killed Kennedy aren’t out to get me?”
“It’s too early to say so with confidence. But consider, while this Hidell seems to have aged as much as the real Oswald would, his killer, the Jack Ruby replica the Boston office has identified as a bartender named Bud Coggins, is younger than Ruby was in 1963.”
“I don’t follow your thinking,” the President said slowly.
“The Ruby replica–Coggins–was seen driving to the University of Massachusetts wearing a virtual-reality headset. He was wearing it when he shot Hidell. The Boston office reports that a miniature camera mounted on the helmet actually transmitted whatever the man was looking at–or would have been looking at if the helmet hadn’t been blocking his vision–to the so-called eyephones in the helmet. In other words, he was seeing reality, but thought he was in virtual reality.”
“Sounds like hooey to me,” said the President.
“On the contrary, it was very clever. There was a letter of invitation found in the dead man’s pocket inviting him to an exclusive virtual-reality game demonstration. No return address. Just a telephone number. He obviously called this number and was given the helmet and the van found in the UMass parking garage. The name of the company was Jaunt Systems. There is no such company on record, Mr. President. And the telephone number is a blind cellular number.”
“I’m still not sure I follow.”
“According to the invitation, the name of the game Bud Coggins thought he was playing was Ruby.”
“My God!”
“Bud Coggins was a dupe. A well-known player of electronic games, no family, few friends, he was tricked into covering up the trail back to the assassination conspirators by gunning down Alek James Hidell, chosen as much for his game skill as his resemblance to Jack Ruby. Had there been an older Ruby who could have done the job, no doubt that one would have been contacted instead. But Bud Coggins had the greatest chance of success.”
“But he gunned down several crack Secret Service agents.”
“He thought he was playing a game. That and his superior reflexes gave him an edge the Secret Service did not have. They could not shoot unless they were certain of their target. Coggins shot first and asked no questions. Thinking he was in a game, there was no lethal penalty for minor failures encountered along the way.”
The President digested this in silence.
“We now know that the replica Gila Gingold was found to have a surgical scar–a burr hole–in his head identical to the replica Socks the cat. That links those two incidents, but not the Boston shooting. Nevertheless, I believe they are linked.”
“Linked how?”
“By the clever employment of replicas.”
“Makes sense,” said Remo.
“But who is trying to get me?”
“I submit to you, Mr. President, that none of these attempts were serious.”
“What!”
“This is a well-planned and orchestrated operation. If we can call it that. Yet anyone willing to research Secret Service procedure–and I submit the mastermind behind this has done his homework–would know that you never step out of the Presidential limousine first, but only after a special agent has. Further, the likelihood of the replica Socks getting to you was not high. And the replica Gingold likewise was unlikely to cause you fatal injury.”
“You mean no one’s actually trying to kill me?”
“No one is trying to kill you yet. They are certainly trying to frighten you or discredit you.”
“But who?”
“The only clue, and it has obviously been planted, was found on the shell casing of the bullet that killed Special Agent Crandall.”
“Crandall?”
“The man who took the bullet for you in Boston.”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard his name,” the President said slowly.
Harold Smith picked a Lucite container from the desktop and handed it to the President. “Examine the initials on the ejected shell,” he suggested.
The President tilted the box until the brass casing rolled the scratched letters into view. “RX?” he muttered. “Who is RX?”
“The initials mean nothing to you?”
“No.”
“Perhaps they are not initials,” mused Smith.
“What could they be?”
“On the face of it, RX is shorthand for prescription.”
The President looked odd. “The medical community?”
“A warning from someone wishing you to think they are the medical community. Consider, Mr. President. You were in Boston at the John F. Kennedy Library to talk about health care when the first attempt was made. The shell casing was left at the sniper’s perch deliberately, along with the rifle. You are a great admirer of President Kennedy. It is very clear that a great deal of money and effort has gone into sending you a message.”
“Back off health care, or join Kennedy in Arlington National Cemetery?” ventured the President.
“That is how I interpret it, Mr. President.”
“Well, I’m not backing off.”
“I do not expect you to. But you must realize that the mind behind these outrageous attacks may be prepared to escalate his tactics.”
“Escalate to what? He’s already tried to kill me three times.”
“Escalate to the point of succeeding,” said Harold Smith.
The President swallowed.
Someone began pounding on the door, and a shrill female voice demanded, “What’s going on in there? So help me, if you’re with another woman, you’ll get more than a lamp thrown at you this time.”
“Coming dear,” said the President, rising to go.
“It is over,” intoned Chiun.
“Huh?” said Remo.
“The First Lady has sung.”
Chapter Twenty-two
In the dead of night in Pepsie Dobbins’s Georgetown town house, the telephone buzzed. Pepsie Dobbins awoke, heard a voice speaking and murmured, “Hello?”
The voice continued speaking, and the phone continued buzzing. Pepsie shook her befogged head to clear it and realized it was her tape recorder speaking in the voice of Buck Featherstone.
“...on the other hand, if there were two Oswalds, the substitution was made when the real Oswald was stationed in that U-2 base in Japan.”
Pepsie clicked off the tape machine and picked up the quietly buzzing telephone.
“Pepsie Dobbins?” a soft voice asked.
“Yes.”
“What is past is prologue.”
“Say again?”
“You are on ground zero of the story of the century.”
“My words exactly.”
“And I’m in a position to help you.”
“Yeah?” said Pepsie, sitting up. She hit the Record button on her built-in telephone recorder, just in case.
“The people out to get this President are the same people who martyred President Kennedy.”
“Who? Who? Tell me!”
“The establishment.”
“What establishment?”
“The establishment.”
“Isn’t the President the establishment? Now.”
“No, I mean the infra-establishment. The secret people in secret offices doing secret things. Sometimes they work for the military-industrial complex. Sometimes they are entrenched bureaucrats in low places. Other times it is Congress itself.”
Pepsie frowned. “Who are they this time?”
“The medical-industrial complex.”
“Medical–”
“They have left a clue. You should find this clue and expose it to the world so the world will know. Maybe if the world finds out, this President can be saved from involuntary martyrdom.”
“Who are you?”
“Call me the Director.”
“The director of what?”
“I want something in return from you,” the Director said.
“What’s that?”
“Footage. I want every inch of tape and film you can beg, borrow or steal on this story.”
“Are you from CNN by any chance?” Pepsie asked.
But the line went dead.
· · ·
Dr. Harold W. Smith awoke in the rosewood somberness of the Lincoln Bedroom. He had never enjoyed that privilege before. Not even at the invitation of the President who had installed him as director of CURE.
It was a privilege that under ordinary circumstances Smith would never have accepted. But the threat to the President was extraordinary, and the Secret Service seemed, at best, inept.
And his cover identity as retired Secret Service special agent seemed unimpeachable. No one would connect him with the Harold Smith who was director of a sleepy institution like Folcroft Sanitarium.
Smith awoke with the dawn and allowed himself the momentary luxury of absorbing the impressions of the Lincoln Bedroom. It was here that seven Presidents had come to contact him. The room was red. It seemed appropriate inasmuch as the telephone in Smith’s office was also red.
Curious, Smith pulled open the night-table drawer and exposed the White House end of the dedicated line to Folcroft and CURE. It, too, was red.
Smith lifted the receiver. The line was dead. Restoring it, once the current mission was completed, would be his chief priority.
Smith was about to roll out of the big rosewood bed when someone knocked twice on the door.
“Yes?” Smith said.
The door opened, and to Harold Smith’s absolute horror, the First Lady barged in, wearing a turquoise Donna Karan dress.
“Are you Smith?” she demanded.
Smith hesitated. Then, remembering his cover, said, “Yes.”
“The Cure Smith?”
Harold Smith eyes widened. “I do not know what you are talking about,” he blurted.
The First Lady came over to the bed on clicking heels. Harold Smith modestly drew the covers up to his throat.
“Exactly who are you?”
“Madam, that is none of your concern.”
“My husband says you’re with the Secret Service.”
“I am retired, technically,” said Smith.
“And those two who stood outside my bedroom last night guarding us were also Secret Service agents?”
“Yes.”
The First Lady’s laserlike blue eyes blazed at him. “If any of you are with the Secret Service, then I’m Bess Truman.”
Smith said nothing.
“Do you know what the little man in the kimono said to me this morning?”
“I do not,” Smith admitted.
“He offered to slay anyone who stood between me and what he called the Eagle Throne in exchange for the Kingdom of Hawaii.”
“I am certain you misunderstood him.”
“And he called you Emperor Smith and the President a puppet.”
“That, of course, is preposterous.”
“If he is a puppet, he’s my puppet. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Harold Smith, “I understand.”
And the First Lady stormed out.
· · ·
Hurriedly dressing, Harold Smith then walked down to the Oval Office in the West Wing of the White House. It felt strange to walk these pale halls so freely, but these were strange times.
Standing before the white door was Remo Williams, dressed in a slate gray Brooks Brothers suit and dark sunglasses.
“I hate this,” Remo grumbled when Smith stepped into view. “I haven’t worn a suit in years and now I remember why.”
“Yes?”
“They itch.”
“Your credibility as a Secret Service agent is very important to this mission. Now I must speak with the President. Is he alone?”
“No. Chiun is trying to con him into something, as usual.”
“My God,” said Smith, knocking in the door.
“It’s Smith. I must see you, Mr. President.”
The twangy voice called, “C’mon in.”
Harold Smith stepped into the Oval Office. He saw that it had been redecorated and wrinkled his nose at the change in tradition. Then he noticed the desk. It was the Resolute desk, constructed from the timbers of the British warship Resolute–the same desk at which President Kennedy had sat when Smith had first met with him three decades before. Smith had read that Johnson had banished it from the White House. It was a shock to see it again after so many years. He shook off the tidal current of memories and cleared his throat noisily.
The President brightened when he saw Smith and waved him over. “Smith! Come join us.”
The President was seated in the middle of the deep blue rug before the desk, over the Great Seal of the President stitched into the nap in gold. The Master of Sinanju sat facing him, shimmering in a gold silk kimono.
“Shouldn’t you be at your desk, Mr. President?” Smith asked.
“He is less a target seated on the floor,” said Chiun.
“It’s more relaxing, too,” the President added.
Smith cleared his throat. “I just received a visit from the First Lady.”
“Don’t mind her. She thinks she’s co-President. Took over half the West Wing before we even got all moved in.”
“She asked me if I were Smith.”
“Why wouldn’t she? You are Smith.”
“Smith at CURE,” Smith said firmly. “Mr. President, I must ask for an explanation.”
“Oh, that. Shucks. Don’t you fret none. She don’t know who you really are, except that you’re a guy who contacts me from time to time on the net.”
“Have I your solemn word that you have never told her about the organization?”
“Haven’t breathed a word. And speaking of breathing, have you ever tried any of these breathing exercises my good buddy Chiun is showing me?”
“No, I have not.”
“Makes a fella feel like a million bucks. Why, I don’t even feel like my after-breakfast snack.”
“That is good, Mr. President,” said Smith stiffly.
“And he has an idea I really like.”
“What is that?” asked Smith, concern edging his voice.
“Chiun thinks we don’t really need the Secret Service.”
“When you have the best at your beck and call,” said Chiun, magnanimously, “all others are superfluous.”
The President grinned broadly. “I can go along with that.”
“There is only one boon I crave,” Chiun said blandly. “A minor trifle.”
“Yeah?”
Smith suppressed a groan.
“I have toiled in this land for many years, along with my pupil, Remo.”
“America appreciates your loyalty,” said the President.
“A loyalty that has hitherto been paid for in gold.”
“So I understand.”
“Gold is good. But I am an old man, having seen more than eighty summers. I crave something, a minor token of respect that no Master–not even the Great Wang–has been granted by an emperor.”
“Just name it.”
“No pharaoh, no caliph, no emir of old has ever offered this to Sinanju.”
“I’m listening.”
Chiun raised a hopeful finger. He beamed.
“Universal health care is the boon I crave.”
“I’m working on that right now. In another year or two, we may be able to ram something through the Hill.”
Chiun shook his aged head. “I care not for your hills. I wish only that my pupil and I receive adequate health care in return for our dangerous service.”
“Smith, see to it.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” said Harold Smith, relieved that the Master of Sinanju had not asked for something difficult, like a state capital for his personal use.
The phone on the President’s desk rang, and he reached up to take the receiver down.
“What is it?” he asked brightly.
The President listened intently. His buoyant mood quickly darkened. “Just what I needed,” he said unhappily. “Thanks, George.” The President turned to Harold Smith. “If we don’t have enough troubles, that tub of guts Thrush Limburger just blew into town to stir the embers.”
“Speak the word, and his head will adorn your highest flagpole,” cried Chiun.
The President brightened. “Can he do that?” he asked Smith.
“Under no circumstances can I permit this,” Smith said quickly.
“Maybe we can just kinda embarrass him a touch.”
Chiun bowed his aged head. “I am your eternal servant, O generous dispenser of universal health care.”
Smith interrupted, “Mr. President, I strongly disagree with that idea. We will need Remo and Chiun to follow any leads to the person or organization behind these attempts on your life, and frivolous expenditures of their time are contrary to the operational parameters of CURE.”
“Shucks,” said the President of the United States. Turning to the Master of Sinanju, he said, “Tell me more about how I remind you of Emperor Nero...”
Chapter Twenty-three
Thrush Limburger plopped his three-hundred-odd pounds into the heavy-duty swivel chair of the mobile broadcast RV parked on the concrete plaza in front of the Capitol Building.
