"My God!" croaked Smith.
"What's up, Smitty?" asked Remo, coming off the divan.
"The General Post Office in New York City has been demolished by an explosion. The explosive force must have been tremendous."
"Is that the big place on Fifth Avenue with all the columns?"
"It was," Smith said dully.
"What the hell is going on?" asked Remo. "Why would anyone want to blow up an entire post office?"
"Perhaps to show that it can be done."
"Huh?"
"At the very least, the person or persons responsible for the mailbox bombings have just covered their tracks in the most absolute fashion possible."
"Are we fighting Muslim terrorists or the US. Postal Service?"
Smith logged off the AP bulletin, and his eyes were stark.
"I believe we are fighting both."
"Both?"
"This e-mail account strongly suggests a terrorist network of Muslim fundamentalists. Al Ladeen is clearly of this group. And he was an employee of the post office."
"Yeah..."
"It is possible that others of his cell are also employees of the post office."
"You know, that could explain a lot of things. All these mailmen going postal, for example."
"Postal?" asked Chiun.
"That's what they call it," said Remo. "When a mailman goes nuts and starts killing other mailmen, they call it 'going postal.'"
Chiun stroked his wisp of a beard, his narrowing eyes turning reflective.
"In the days of Alexander, messengers often arrived crazed with thirst and exhaustion. It was very common for them to lay the message that they carried at the feet of their king and expire on the spot."
"That's because they had to run barefoot three or four thousand miles to get the word out."
"In those days, it was not so far," Chiun sniffed. "A certain Greek scribbler once said of the messengers of Persia that neither darkness nor cold nor rain could deter them from their duties."
"Isn't that the motto of the post office?" asked Remo.
"Adopted from Herodotus," said Smith.
"Yes, that was the Greek," said Chiun.
"According to these files, this cell has been operating for less than a year," Smith added.
"So why are they acting up only now? What do they want?" asked Remo.
"Unless I am misreading the events in Manhattan, they are making a statement."
"A statement. Of what?"
"That they exist. That they can strike us with impunity."
"That's what the fanatics behind the World Trade Center bombing thought. Look where they are now. All rotting away in a federal pen, including the Deaf Mullah."
"I must inform the President of our findings," said Smith, reaching into a desk drawer. Out came a cherry red telephone, a standard desk model, except that its blank face lacked a dial or keypad. He placed it on the desktop.
"My guess is he's already gotten word," Remo said dryly as Smith picked up the receiver and placed it to one ear.
Smith waited. The dedicated line activated an identical telephone in the Lincoln Bedroom of the White House by the simple act of Smith lifting the receiver. The line rang audibly in Smith's ear. And rang. And rang.
At length, a female voice came on the line. "Who is it? Who's at the other end of this thing? Is this Smith? Speak up. I know you're there. I can hear you wheezing."
"We are undone!" Chiun wailed. "It is the meddlesome queen!"
Coloring, Smith hung up, "Evidently he is not in the residence," he said nervously.
"Probably on the campaign trail, trying to scrounge up a few last votes," grunted Remo.
"He will have to return to Washington," said Smith. "This is too important."
"It will be too late to save his doomed presidency," intoned the Master of Sinanju.
"What makes you say that?" asked Smith, turning.
"Because those who squat on the Eagle Throne are by their nature doomed. I have dwelt in this mighty land many years now. I have seen the Presidents come and go, like untrustworthy viziers. I know them by heart. The Unshaven President. The Pretender. The Peanut Farmer. The Jelly Bean Eater. The Inarticulate One. The Glutton. Say but the word, and we will dispense forever with this succession of fools. Do not deny that your loins yearn to occupy the Eagle Throne in all its pomp and circumstance."
"We stay out of elections," Smith said flatly.
Chiun made his voice conspiratorial. "You have the power to abolish them."
Face puckering in a lemony frown, Smith returned to the e-mail.
Remo whispered to the Master of Sinanju, "Don't you ever get tired of trying?"
"He who ceases to try engineers his own defeat. He who never gives up cannot be defeated."
"He who hectors his Emperor to distraction may find his silken skirts on the street."