"That is the point. The agency that funnels money is out of funds."
"What agency is that?" asked the President, noticing the door to the Lincoln Bedroom slowly easing open.
"The Federal Emergency Management Agency."
The President pounded his knee with a fist. "Damn. My wife made me freeze their money."
"It could not have come at a worse time. You must release those funds at once."
"That's easier said than done, Smith. People are going to ask questions. Can't we put your people on retainer?"
"Unlikely."
"Maybe we can scrounge up the money from other agencies. The CIA, DARPA, those kind of places."
"I am willing to go along with any solution that does not expose the organization to public scrutiny, Mr. President."
"Good. How much are we talking about here?"
Smith named a figure.
And the President of the United States suddenly felt like lying down. He did. Staring at the ceiling, he restated the question in a thin, faraway voice. "We pay how much?"
"A raise was in order this year," said Smith.
The President sat up. He kicked off his shoes. "Forget it. No raise. In fact, you're going to have to slash that sum. Who do those people think they are anyway?"
"You have seen them in action. They saved your life."
"I know that. But they're bankrupting the treasury with their demands."
"Mr. President, these people have put out word that they are available to other nations. I have reason to suspect this knowledge, or—more to the point—the knowledge that they may no longer be in our employ, has emboldened the Mexican government."
"Are you saying—you can't be saying—that the Mexicans see us as vulnerable because they don't work for us? What about our nukes?"
"How likely are we to deploy nukes?" Smith countered.
"They're a last resort. The political fallout would be horrendous. Not to mention what would blow our way if the Gulf Stream picks up the radioactive dust."
"Exactly. On the other hand, if the Mexican government—or any other government—should acquire Sinanju capability, you might die in your sleep of natural causes and there would be no retaliation because no one would ever know or even suspect you were assassinated."
"I see your point. But what can I do? The budget's a mess."
"That money must be found."
"I'll get back to you," said the President, and hung up.
The President jumped from the bed and crossed the room in his stocking feet and took hold of the doorknob. He gave a sharp yank. And the First Lady came spilling into the room.
"Because of you," the President said sternly, "we just lost our ultimate defense."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said the First Lady, scrambling to her feet. Her cheeks glowed red in her anger, and that gave the President an idea.
"You're overdue," he said.
"For what?"
"For this."
And the President grabbed his wife around the waist and carted her over to Lincoln's rosewood bed.
"Not now! We're in the middle of a crisis," the First Lady countered.
"That's not what I had in mind," said the President, sitting down hard with the First Lady draped over his lap.
He began to apply his big right hand to her backside with stern enthusiasm, saying, "Stay out of my business. Stay out of my damn business."
Chapter Sixteen
Night had fallen when Remo returned home. He tipped the cabbie who had brought him from the airport a hundred dollars, and on his way to the front door, found a drunk sprawled on the front steps, a huge green bottle of vodka clutched in one insensate hand.
"Oh, great," said Remo. "This is all I need."
The drunk was out cold, but when Remo grabbed the back of his black coat in one hand and the bottle of vodka in the other, he stirred.
Lifting the hand that still thought it clutched the vodka bottle, he mumbled, "Do svidaniya."
"Same to you, buddy," said Remo.
"America good," he said.
"Yeah, it's great. I just hope I'm still living here this time next month."
Dragging the man up the street, Remo dumped him in the bushes fringing the high-school quadrangle. The police usually patrolled this area. When they found him, they'd slap him in a cell to sleep it off.
"I am not clown," the man mumbled.
"That's a matter of opinion," said Remo, who emptied the vodka bottle preparatory to tossing it into the bushes.
He noticed the label. It showed a man with a pugnacious face wearing a black-billed cap like that of an old-fashioned streetcar conductor. Remo noticed the drunk had a similar black-billed cap sticking out of a pocket. Then he noticed the drunk wore the same pugnacious face as the label, only looser. He also drooled.
"You have your own vodka?" Remo blurted.
"Da. I do."
"Then you won't miss this one when you sober up," said Remo, tossing the bottle and walking away.