"This way we cancel each other out," said Barry Black Junior.
Harmon Cashman shoved an Oreo into his own mouth to suppress a grin of pleasure. He knew how this would play on the evening newscast. Gubernatorial candidate Enrique Espiritu Esperanza comforts rival and receives endorsement in return. It couldn't have played any better if he had set the whole thing up himself.
The attack on Black campaign headquarters led the evening local broadcast throughout California, and topped the national news on all three networks and CNN.
It was deplored from the White House on down to the San Francisco mayor's office. The President, en route to oversee renovations to his Maine home, paused under the whirling blades of Marine One to denounce the situation in the Golden State.
"We're not gonna let the California governor's race degenerate into the kind of thing we're seeing here," he promised. "I've asked the FBI and Secret Service to look into this. Mark my words, we're gonna nail the dastards behind this outrage. Our best people are on top of it."
Watching the news break from his Folcroft office, Harold W. Smith understood that the last remark referred to his organization. He had had a brittle conversation with the President only minutes before he'd left the White House.
"What's going on out there?" the President had asked testily.
"I do not know," Smith had admitted. "The last report from our special person was that two assassins had been terminated."
"I never heard that."
"We like to handle these matters quietly," Smith said. "At the moment I am awaiting a positive identification on one of the deceased terrorists."
"Are you sure it's terrorists?"
"My information is sketchy," Smith admitted. "We have reason to believe the men behind this wave of political arson are Hispanic. Possibly foreign nationals."
"What nation?"
"Unknown. I am merely speculating in the absence of hard information."
"Well, dammit, get some facts. We need to know if this is connected with the double assassination of the two governors out there."
"I hope to have some concrete intelligence within a day or two," Smith assured the President. "In the meantime, I will move our special person into the Black campaign as a precaution."
"Won't that leave that Esperanza guy unprotected?"
"Our other special person has that aspect well in hand."
"I hope so, Smith. We can't tolerate this kind of stuff within our borders. This is America. Not some banana republic."
"Yes, Mr. President," said Harold W. Smith, replacing the red telephone receiver.
He looked at his watch. He hoped Remo would check in soon. His last report was that he was on his way to San Francisco, because that was where the Esperanza entourage-and therefore, Chiun-was relocating.
Smith returned to his computer. He accessed crime-statistics computers throughout the Golden State. They told him nothing. The only anomaly was an uptick of activity in the area of the Border Patrol. They were being stretched to the limit. Not from the surge of illegals coming across the U.S.-Mexican border, but illegals coming from other states to take advantage of the amnesty program. A number of them were being picked up before they could apply for citizenship.
The intercom buzzed while Smith was digesting this phenomenon.
"Yes, Mrs. Milkulka?"
"The lobby guard says there's a package for you, Dr. Smith."
"Have him bring it up," Smith said absently.
"I'm afraid it's too large for the elevator."
Smith's prim mouth puckered. "Tell him I'll be right down. And not to open that package."
Harold Smith reached the lobby in fifteen seconds flat.
The lobby, guard said, "There it is."
His pointing finger indicated a long wooden crate, whose dimensions roughly matched those of a standardsized coffin.
"Have it taken to the basement," Smith directed.
"Yes, sir."
In the dank basement, Harold Smith dismissed the pair of burly orderlies who had lugged the coffin-shaped box down there. They had placed it in a dim corner, beside the false wall that concealed the Folcroft mainframes that fed Smith's desktop terminal.
Taking a pry bar, Smith attacked the wooden slat cover. He cracked one of the slats free.
The smell made him recoil.
"Damn!" he choked, gasping for breath. He continued breaking slats until he had the upper torso of the dead man uncovered.
Smith reached in and felt about, distaste on his prim face. He finally found the videotape tucked into the corpse's shirt. It smelled of decay, as he brought it into the light of a naked twenty-five-watt bulb.
It was a struggle to get fingerprint samples. Rigor mortis had set in. But he managed the chore of inking the greenish fingers and impressing the prints onto a sheet of paper.
The face meant nothing to Smith. He committed it to memory, then hammered the slats back into place.
He returned to his office feeling very much in need of a shower.
Smith faxed the prints to the FBI, who thought they were receiving a routine CIA inter-agency information request.
While he was waiting for a reply, the blue contact phone rang. Smith picked it up.
"Remo?"
"Just checked into my hotel. What's up?"
"There has been an attempt on the life of Barry Black, Junior."
"No kidding."
"I never kid. And I do not appreciate the manner in which you responded to my request for the dead man's fingerprints."
"Find the tape?" Remo asked lightly.