"Do you think Smith has anything to do with the attempts on the President's life?"
"No. It is Smith who has ordered me to Washington to protect the puppet from those who covet his life. I do not understand this. Smith has ignored all my entreaties to snuff the puppet and set him on the Eagle Throne."
"You mean the Oval Office?"
"I mean what I mean. It matters not where the emperor places his throne, only that he sits upon it with firmness."
"You want the President dead?"
"It will bring stability to this land of mass confusion. Every four years it is the same circus. Many vie for the puppet throne, and each time the prettiest face and the loudest voice triumphs. Seldom has a true ruler won the contest."
"Name one who did."
"Milhous the Trusted. He was a true leader. Cold. Ruthless. Calculating. The years when he was puppet were good ones, relatively."
"What did you say your name was?"
"I did not say," the old man sniffed. "But I am called Chiun. Remember the name well. Just do not repeat it to anyone."
"My lips are sealed," Pepsie said, surreptitiously shutting off the tape recorder.
Chapter 11
The Washington press corps had already staked out Andrews Air Base when Air Force One touched down on barking tires.
Secret Service Special Agent Vince Capezzi spotted them as the lumbering 747 swung off the runway, trundling toward the waiting black-and-olive-green helicopter that, like others designated for the Chief Executive's official use, was called Marine One whenever the President himself stepped aboard.
"We got press in large numbers," he barked into his hand mike. "Inform the pilot to park her in the hangar. We'll take the Man off inside."
"Roger."
Turbines spooling down, the Presidential plane veered toward a waiting hangar. Seeing the course change, the Washington press corps surged toward the hangar.
"Wonderful. They're going to try to beat us to the hangar."
"I'd better put this to the President," said Capezzi, lifting himself out of his seat in the Secret Service cubicle.
He moved through the narrow blue corridors and encountered the chief of staff.
"We have press," Capezzi said grimly.
"Good."
"Good? We've got to get the Man to Crown as fast as possible."
"It's the White House. Call it the White House when you talk to me. All these dipshit code names drive me crazy."
"Until we've ascertained that there is no conspiracy, the President belongs in a secure place."
"He has a health-care plan to push. He's pretty steamed you pulled him out of Boston."
"I didn't notice your vociferous objection."
The chief of staff shrugged. "You know how it goes."
"Yeah, I know how it goes. Whenever the President has to change his schedule, the service is trotted out as scapegoat. But this time the threat was real."
"Look, I'm going to recommend the President speak briefly to the press."
"It's a risk."
"It would have to be a pretty big conspiracy to have agents in Boston and Washington," the chief of staff pointed out.
"It's not impossible. And I object to any Presidential appearance in the strongest possible terms."
"He's still the President. He makes these decisions. But I'll relay to him your concerns."
"Like hell you will. I'm going in there with you. I won't lose this President to staff politics."
"Fine," the chief of staff said stiffly. "We'll both go see the President."
"Don't bother," the hoarse voice of the President of the United States said. "I heard everything."
The President appeared behind them, looking grim.
The chief of staff spoke up quickly. "Mr. President, now would be an excellent time to assure the nation that you are alive and in control of the reins of power."
"You mean word hasn't gotten out yet?" Capezzi said.
The chief of staff smiled tightly. "We thought it would endanger the President's security if word were released prematurely."
Buttoning a fresh jacket and smoothing his replacement tie, the President said, "I'll address the press when I step off the plane. Have the air stairs rolled into place and make the usual security arrangements."
"Damn," Capezzi said, turning on his heel to do his thankless duty.
Air Force One was braked short of the hangar. The Washington press corps uncertainly stopped its mass stampede and looked indecisive.
There was a runway staircase mounted on a waiting truck and it started up, moving into position. Once the bumpers touched the hull on either side of the main exit door, the door was thrown open and Secret service agents, clutching MAC-11s, rattled down the red-carpeted steps and began going among the press contingent, demanding to see plastic press IDs and frisking unfamiliar reporters with metal-detecting wands.
"Okay," one barked into his wrist mike. "All clear."
"Roger. We're moving him down from Angel One now."
The President emerged, flanked by two agents whose immobile faces rotated back and forth with metronomic regularity.
The President lifted one hand, and gasps floated up from the assembled press.