"The Vice-President of the United States?" Smith asked doubtfully.
"No," Remo shot back sarcastically. "The Vice-President of Exxon. I've got the tape to prove it, too. "
"Remo," Smith said firmly, "the Vice-President was awakened this morning in his own bed, by his own handlers and at the request of the White House, and bundled off to this drug-rehabilitation-center appearance."
Are you sure he's the real Vice-President?" Remo asked.
"How do you know the man on the tape is?" Smith countered.
"Looks like him, right down to the golf swing."
"The Vice-President would never plot against the country."
"No? Remember that stock-market thing we dealt with a few months back? And the secret English descendants infrastructure that was dedicated to selling the US out to Great Britain? The Vice-President was on the list of secret British loyalists."
"That threat has been terminated. I cannot believe the Vice-President would act to undermine this country. "
"Well, something's screwy down here. Look, we think they hopped a train to Mexico City."
"Then go to Mexico City. But keep this to yourself."
"From my lips to God's ears," Remo said, hanging up.
In the next room, Comandante Oscar Odio waited for the extension receiver to click before he hung up. His face wore an uncharacteristic frown. It was astonishing, what he had overheard. The American Vice-President in Mexico? A coup underway in the United States?
But most intriguing was the intelligence that the President himself was not dead, but alive somewhere in Mexico. It was very, very valuable information to a man who knew how to disseminate such things correctly.
He left the room of his secretary and rejoined Officer Mazatl in the hall outside his own office. Mazatl stood there, her brown thumb hooked into her black belt like some caballero de pulqueria. She did not at all resemble a woman, Odio thought.
Nevertheless, he smiled at her pleasantly. The smile was not returned. If anything, Mazatl's obsidian eyes grew harder.
"If you would like to use the men's room, Officer, it is down the hall." His smile didn't waver as he delivered the insult.
"Hijo de la chingada!" Mazatl spat venomously.
The comandante only laughed. He grew sincere when the americanos stepped into the hall.
"We've got to get back to our embassy," the one called Remo said urgently.
"By all means," Comandante Odio said. "I understand perfectamente. Please accept my condolences on the loss of your beloved presidente," he added sorrowfully.
"Thanks," Remo said distantly.
"And," Comandante Odio added, "as a gesture of solidarity with you in your bereavement, please allow Officer Mazatl to escort you back to Mexico City."
Officer Mazatl whirled.
"I am not under your command!" she spat.
"Of course not, senorita," Odio said oilily. "But I am certain your superiors would want you to see that the American diplomats are well taken care of. You would not want them to become lost in our very large country."
"We can take care of ourselves," Remo said flatly.
"But the officer will expedite your trip," Odio insisted. "I am certain you do not wish to wait for a Mexicana flight, since they often meet with unfortunate delays. I will arrange military transportation for you."
"Okay," Remo relented, "but only because we're in a rush."
Odio turned to Officer Mazatl. He smiled. "Senorita?"
"I will go with these two," she said sullenly, "but not because you expect it."
"As you wish, Officer Mazatl."
The comandante departed to make the arrangements.
FJP Officer Mazatl stepped up to Remo and Chiun. She looked Remo hard in the eyes.
"You are concealing something," she hissed. "I can tell that."
"Prove it," said Remo, feeling the hard edge of the videotape in the small of his back.
Chapter 12
Jorge Chingar sat beside his telephone in his palatial hacienda outside the Colombian town of Cali. All morning long the calls kept coming in.
"Padrino, the U.S. President has not yet arrived."
"Padrino, still no sign of Air Force Uno."
"Padrino, the other conference representatives are beginning to wonder what is keeping the presidente."
All morning long. But no concrete word on the U. S. President's fate. It was maddening. His spies in Bogota faithfully updated him every half-hour. But there was yet no word from his Palestinian compadres. Surely they would have called by this time. Perhaps they had been captured in Mexico. It was a pleasant thought. Death to the American President, and Jorge Chingar could keep the money promised for the deed. The Palestinians were fools of a sort, after all. No one else in their business would have undertaken such a daring task without first obtaining a substantial down payment.
But these men had been so eager to make their reputation that all that seemed to matter was getting the job.
Jorge Chingar, known as El Padrino-"The God father"-already had a reputation. He also had a million-dollar estate outside of Bogata-until the Colombian Army, backed up by U.S. DEA agents, swooped down upon it in the middle of the night, forcing El Padrino to flee into the hot jungle wearing only his silk underwear.
He was not without resources, principally caches of money and armaments. It had been a simple enough matter to set up again in a safe house, one unknown to the Colombian government.
But the indignity of it offended EI Padrino and he had sworn, even as his bare feet slipped on the wet jungle grasses that evil night, that he would make the President of the United States pay.
The phone rang again. He grabbed it with his many-ringed right hand.
"Si?"
"El Padrino?"