"Who, me?" said Remo.
"I was thinking of the Master of Sinanju," said Smith.
"Me, too," said Remo.
"One more item," said Smith.
"Yeah?"
"Buy yourself a good conservative suit and matching pair of sunglasses."
Before Remo could ask why, Harold Smith had disconnected.
Chapter 15
The director of the Secret Service showed up at the West Gate to the White House, briefcase in one hand, personal faxphone in the other.
A uniformed Secret Service guard confiscated both and ran the metal-detecting batons up and down his stiff body anyway.
"Are you crazy! Do you know who I am?"
"Orders from the Man, sir."
The director of the Secret Service turned as red as a boiler about to explode but held his tongue.
"You may enter, sir."
"First get me the President on the line."
"I'm sorry, sir. Big Mac has just left Crown."
"I was not told this."
"It was a sudden decision."
"Where did he go, Camp David?"
"No, sir. He's just gone for a jog"
"A jog! In the middle of all this?"
The gate guard said nothing.
"I want radio silence from this moment on," the director snapped.
"Sir?"
The director indicated the press microwave vans parked outside the White House with a toss of his gray head.
"The Grim Ghouls are probably prowling our band even as we speak."
"Yes sir."
The director was escorted to the Secret Service command post in the basement of the West Wing and repeated the order to the assistant chief of the White House detail, Jack Murtha.
Belt radios were immediately shut off.
"What's this about Big Mac going for a jog?" the director wanted to know.
Murtha said, "It's true, sir. We pleaded with him to reconsider, but he was insistent."
"He took his detail with him?"
"Of course, sir."
The director of the Secret Service heaved a slow, relaxed sigh. At least the President still trusted his personal guard.
"What's the latest from Boston?" he demanded.
"Another fax coming in now."
"What have we got so far?"
Jack Murtha went pale as a pear. "Morgue photos on the shooter and the subject who took him out."
"Let me see."
The photos were handed over.
"Damn, if that doesn't look like Oswald," the director said as agents gathered around him.
"If that's Oswald, who's buried in his grave?"
"And this guy does kinda resemble Ruby," an agent pointed out.
"Ruby was older," the director said. "If the shooter is Oswald plus thirty years, why is this other guy younger than Ruby?"
"Plastic surgery?" someone piped up.
"No theories. I want facts. We'll get into theories later."
"Sir, this fax is from the Boston medical examiner. A preliminary examination of the body reveals a mastoid scar and evidence of wrist slashing in the not-recent past."
"Damn! Oswald had scars like those."
"This can't be Oswald, can it?"