The operatives in Virginia were notifying their home base again. Smith sent his computers into a tracking mode but he could not pick up who these operatives worked for. They were transmitting in code, which Folcroft's computers easily broke, but every time his computer analyzed source and emission to track the would-be killers, frequencies were changed, and he was unable to pin down the killers' location.
Now something else was happening. Instructions were being given.
"So much for B's assurance about a l P.M. completion. B move when? Must be day. Give time."
"Six A.M. The White House," came the response.
"B assures?"
"B assures," the other party to the dialogue responded.
Whoever was arranging the killing of the president was code-named B. He was somewhere in Virginia. Smith knew that, but he could find nothing else, and he realized he was sitting, staring at his monitor, helpless, watching
52
his president go to his death. And he could not reach Remo.
For .the first time in his adult life, he wished he could literally not know something. His stomach twisted. Breathing was hard. He realized one could not be involved in a life-and-de°-.h situation, while being seated, without the body doing strange things. The body, at this time, was meant to move. It could not take all that tension and adrenalin while sitting.
He glanced put through the windows of his office. Summer would soon be in the land. It would be beautiful, but he was helpless.
And then there was a call on his other private line. Remo's access line.
Smith had gotten through and he felt relieved. He would not have to tell the president about the danger without also telling him that the man who would protect him from that danger would be on his way to make sure the president was alive for breakfast.
"Yes," said Smith, the electricity of joy coursing through his body while his face, in its stiff Yankee rectitude, showed nothing. An observer would have thought the man was a bank vice-president making a decision on the lunch hours of different tellers.
"Oh, Gracious Emperor." The voice was not Remo's. It was Chiun.
"Chiun, I've got to get Remo immediately," Smith said.
"And you will. He will be at your devoted service to the glory of your name and through the everlasting reign of your graciousness."
"When?"
"When the slightest command issues from your imperial lips, o, Emperor, the House of Sinanju stands like a
53
beacon of glory behind the infinite majesty of your command."
"I would like to speak to Remo now," said Smith. He was uncomfortable with being called "Emperor." The House of Sinanju had been assassins to monarchs of the world since before Rome was founded, but until Chiun no master had ever worked for a secret organization. Remo explained to Smith one day that Chiun could not understand anyone killing for any reason but to increase one's power. Chiun fully expected Smith, any day, to make some intricate and devious move to become president himself, and Chiun had promised that he would be there to stand at Smith's side when he proclaimed himself emperor. In anticipation of that day, he had already given Smith the title.
"Whatever is your wish, Emperor," Chiun said.
"I'll hold on. I want to talk to Remo now."
"An emperor should never wait for his assassin. The assassin should wait for his emperor. Glory to you," came the squeaky voice. "We stand ready to hang your enemies' heads by the walls of your city."
"Where is Remo?"
"Serving you through glorifying the name of the House of Sinanju."
"I have to talk to him now."
"I would never be one to say no to an emperor," Chiun said.
"Where are you calling from?" Smith asked.
"I am in Sinanju. This is the only telephone," Chiun answered proudly.
"And where is Remo?"
"He is at work."
"What specifically is he doing that he cannot come to the phcjne now? I've got to have a specific answer, Chiun. Specific."
54
Smith listened, nodding every now and then. Chiun talked for 3.5 minutes. The computer had that. The computer also recorded what Chiun had said so Smith could go over it again. The computer could put the old Korean's sing-song English into print and also analyze most probable meanings. When Chiun was finished talking and Smith was finished questioning, he turned to the computer to try to understand what he had heard.
The computer struggled and then quantified. There was a 98.7 percent certainty that Remo was off somewhere at some form of contest and could not be bothered with saving the life of just another American president. There was a 38.6 percent possibility that this contest had something to do with his training.
The computer had understood nothing else.
It was 4 P.M. when Harold W. Smith used the red telephone again. He waited, his face impassive. He did not have Remo, but it was not a time to dwell on what one did not have. One did with what one had, no matter how deficient. He had learned that as a child growing up in the small New Hampshire town. You did not boast. You did not shirk. You did not complain. You made do.
Somehow he remembered Irma while waiting for his president to answer. She was so pretty then. She was the rich girl of the town, and he thought he would die when he had to wear patched trousers to school, because he knew his desk would be near hers. But he went. It was as hard then to wear those trousers to the school as it was now to tell his president about an attempt on his life and that he had no means of protecting the president. He was going to have to tell his president he had failed.
"Hello again," came the friendly voice. "We had a bit of a to-do here. You know a bomb went off right here in the White House. If I hadn't gone to take your phone call, it would have gotten me."
55
"There is going to be another attempt on your life at 6 A.M. tomorrow."
"They'd better not succeed. I don't have time to die."
"Sir, not only has your protective shield been penetrated, but your Secret Service somehow doesn't seem able to respond."
"Well, then, I guess it's your job. You can do it. The president before me said that the only regret he had was that he didn't use your people on the Iranian hostage thing. You take care of it and let me get back to work. I work until five."
"Mr. President, that specific enforcement arm that your predecessor spoke of is engaged elsewhere."
"I see," the president's voice said mellowly over the phone. "Well, if it's more important than my life, I accept that. I'll try to work things out here. The Secret Service has been compromised, you say?"
"I'm not sure, sir. It could be some glitch in their communications. Very easily could be that."