"You'll do whatever it takes, Remo," Smith said flintily. "But you'll do your job. And stay in constant touch. "
"There's another thing," Remo said quickly. "Chiun thinks the V. P. recognized him. That's why he took off."
"Remo, that's impossible. The President knows what you both look like, but the Vice-President could not."
"You don't suppose the President could have told him about us?" Remo suggested.
Smith's voice was flat. " I cannot believe this President would do any such thing."
"Then can you explain it?"
"No," Smith admitted.
"Well, there it is. Look, we'll stay in touch. You do the same."
"I want results, Remo." Smith hung up on Remo's response. He had work to do.
Down in Mexico City, Remo snapped, "And you'll get them," into the dead phone. He hung up, adding, "You just might not like them. But then, you never do, do you?"
Outside, a violent electrical storm had broken out. Rain came down in sheets of metallic needles. It washed the windows like an invisible car wash. Forked lightning stirred the storm.
Remo turned to Chiun, lying on the bed. "We got to move fast," he said. "Can you hold up your end?"
The Master of Sinanju opened his tired eyes.
"Yes. The rain will cleanse the air of impurities."
"It won't add any oxygen. We're way above sea level. "
Chiun slipped his legs over the side of the bed.
"We must do what we can. Where do we begin?"
"Believe it or not," Remo said, picking up the remote-control unit and pointing it at the television set, "we start with the local news. I'll watch. You translate."
He fell back onto the bed, felt something hard dig into his back, and pulled out the videotape of the President's rescue. He tossed it on the nightstand and waited for the TV screen to come to life.
Chapter 16
The White House staff called it "grips and grins."
After four straight hours of it, the Vice-President of the United States called it agony.
He collapsed in his suite at a local hotel.
"Boy, am I glad that's over!" he told his chief of staff. "I could use a round of golf," he added, squeezing his right hand, "but I think if I get a club in my hand, I won't be able to let go."
"I got bad news for you, Dan."
The Vice-President looked up.
The look on his chief of staff's face was grave. He was pale. His voice had quavered toward the end.
For an instant the universe reeled under the Vice-President of the United States. For an instant he thought the thing he half-hoped and half-dreaded had come to pass. The thing that the nation talked about, joked about, and even feared, each according to his views and political opinions.
"You mean . . . ?" The Vice-President croaked.
"Yes," the chief of staff said. "The White House wants us to go to Detroit and do another one of these damn things."
The Vice-President let out his breath. His heart started beating again. He was not the new President.
"What?" he said dazedly.
"More grips and grins," the chief of staff said grimly. "The White House wants it coordinated with the Bogota thing."
"Oh," said the Vice-President. He was relieved. He hadn't wanted to become President under these circumstances. But the possibility had been on everyone's lips ever since the President had agreed to go to Colombia.
"I don't know if I can deal with this," the Vice-President admitted, trying to unclench his right hand.
"It's a two-hour flight. Take a nap and soak your hand-shaking hand on the plane. But let's go. They're really anxious about this."
The Vice-President got up and straightened his tie with stiff fingers.
"Oh, by the way," his chief of staff said, pulling out an envelope, "this is for you."
The Vice-President reached for the proffered envelope, but his fingers refused to close around it. It dropped to the carpet.
"I'll get it," said his chief of staff.
"No, I will," the Vice-President said genially.
They bumped heads attempting to retrieve the fallen envelope.
"Sorry."
"No, I'm sorry," the Vice-President said, holding his head.
His chief of staff helped the Vice-President to his feet and again handed him the envelope. This time the Vice-President accepted it with his left hand. The transfer was completed without further incident, much to his chief of staffs surprise. He had known the Vice-President to forget his own wife's name.
The Vice-President looked at the blank white front and asked, "What is it?"
"From the White House. It's your speech."
"My speech?"
"Yeah. They had the President's top speech writer draft it. I think it's tied to the one the President is giving in Bogota."