The First lady was waiting in the Oval Office when the President reached it. She was wearing that frustrated impatient look of hers.
"No word?" he asked.
"None. And I'd like to know who Smith is and what Cure is."
The President winced. When Smith had contacted him that last time, the E-mail address had been smith@cure.com. There was no such mailbox address, they discovered, and so no way to reply.
"Some day you'll know."
"When?"
"Not when. If."
"If what?" pressed the First Lady.
"If," said the President, dropping heavily into the chair behind the desk where so many Presidents before him had toiled, "you ever become President yourself."
"Don't think it couldn't happen," the First Lady flared.
"Not for a moment," said the President, smiling.
The First Lady relaxed slightly.
"I want you to do something important for me," the President said.
"What?"
The President lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Fetch me a couple of things."
The First Lady approached the executive desk and put one ear to the President's mouth.
When the President explained his needs, the First Lady frowned, then blurted, "What do you need those for?"
"Because," said the President, "I'm going jogging."
"Are you insane?" the First Lady shrieked.
"No, just scared out of my skin," admitted the President of the United States in no uncertain terms.
Chapter 14
At a pay phone on Virginia Avenue, Remo Williams phoned Harold W. Smith at Folcroft Sanitarium.
"Smitty. Did you hear? The President's still alive."
"Yes. It is a great relief."
"Well, don't relax yet. Something weird's going on down here."
"What is it? Where are you, Remo?"
"D.C. I just got back from the White House."
"You should be protecting the President."
"Scratch that plan. I just pulled his fat out of the fire in front of his personal Secret Service guards. I've been made."
"Pulled his fat out of the fire? What do you mean?"
"Just as I was pulling up, he was stepping off Marine One. No sooner does he do that than the Secret Service starts to draw down on him."
Horror made Smith's voice wobble. "His own agents?"
"No, not the guys in the chopper. The ones patrolling the White House grounds. It looked like they were going to slaughter one another until I stepped in and grabbed the cat."
"What cat?"
"The First Cat. What's his name? Puss? Boots?"
"Socks," said Smith.
"Except it wasn't Socks, because Socks showed up later."
"Why would the Secret Service be shooting at a stray cat?"
"I don't think it was a stray. It was a dead ringer for the real Socks."
"How can you be sure?"
"If you ever looked Socks in the puss, you'd be sure. That is one ugly kitty cat."
Smith made a strange noise, and when he got his throat cleared he asked, "Remo, please begin at the beginning."
"Let me finish up my story before I go back to square one. I moved in and grabbed the cat. Let me tell you, it was strong. Or thought it was. The agents swore it was rabid. But I don't think it was. It was just an upset cat. Once I defused the situation, everything seemed to get back to normal. I flashed my Secret Service ID and, while the pieces were being picked up, I got out of there."
Smith said nothing for a long time.
"The Secret Service is extremely well trained," he mused.
"Not these guys. They were having conniption fits over a stray cat."
"It is entirely too coincidental that a cat exactly resembling Socks should appear on the White House grounds creating such a disturbance."
"I hate it when you're right," Remo said glumly.
"Remo, Chiun should be arriving at Washington National any minute now. Rendezvous with him, then call me."