"Just point the way," said Remo. Smith went to a boarded-up closet door, unlocked it by pressing a corner lintel, then the door clicked open, boards and all.
Smith beckoned them on.
They found themselves in a corridor so narrow it had to be a hollow space in the walls. As they squeezed along, Remo noticed Smith reach surreptitiously into the watch pocket of his gray vest. Out came a white coffin-shaped pill. Smith made a protective fist around it.
Remo eased up and took Smith by the same wrist, twisting it against the natural flex of the joint. Smith clenched his teeth fiercely, and his fingers went slack.
Remo caught the poison pill in his free hand and released Smith.
"No poison pill until you find my father for me," said Remo.
"What if we are caught?"
"Then it's every man for himself."
Rubbing his wrists angrily, Harold Smith continued leading the way.
The White House was strangely quiet. Occasionally footsteps came to their ears. Smith seemed to guide himself by sense of direction and the touch of his hand on the wall. He led them eastward.
When they emerged into light again, they were standing in an alcove.
"The White House theater is to our left," whispered Smith. "This is the critical stage." He donned a pair of impenetrable sunglasses, adding, "Follow my lead." Then he stepped out.
Remo put on his own sunglasses. Unseen, the Master of Sinanju drew on round smoked glasses of his own.
There was a Secret Service agent standing post before a double set of cream-colored doors.
Smith showed his Secret Service badge and said, "Has the President arrived yet?"
"No, sir. The picture is scheduled for seven sharp."
"The director requested a double-check of the security arrangements," said Smith.
The Secret Service agent reached for his belt radio, and Remo noticed Smith stiffen.
"Damn, I forgot."
"Yes?" said Smith in a too-cool voice.
"We're on radio silence."
"I know," said Smith quickly. "And if we're to check the theater before Big Mac arrives, we must move quickly."
"Right," said the agent, stepping away from the door.
Then he noticed Chiun regarding him through smoked lenses.
"Are you Secret Service?"
Chiun drew himself up proudly. "Better. I am a Secret Servant."
"Master Chiun is an expert on assassinations," Smith said quickly.
"Expert assassin," corrected Chiun.
"His English is not very good," added Smith, who hastily ushered Remo and Chiun into the tiny theater.
"Big Mac?" said Remo, once they were alone.
"Secret Service code name for the President," explained Smith.
"Fits him like a glove," Remo grunted.
Then, outside the closed doors the sound of running feet preceded a shout.
"Is the Man here yet?" an out-of-breath voice asked.
"No," returned the agent on post.
"Well, I gotta find him quick! We have a problem on the North Lawn. You try the East Wing, and I'll head up to the second floor."
"Right."
The rattle of running feet faded down the corridor, and in the White House theater, Remo said to Smith, "What do we do?"
"You and Chiun look into this. Discreetly."
"What about you?"
Harold Smith took a seat in the first row.
"I intend to await the President's arrival."
Chapter 18
Although it was early by Washington standards, the White House began emptying out at 7:00 p.m. Staff were being sent home early under a strict gag order.
Kirby Ayers of the uniformed Secret Service watched over the turnstiles at the East Gate entrance, where staffers and visitors alike were required to go through the process of inserting their magnetic keycards into a reader machine before walking through the metal detectors.
The White House press corps, on the other hand, were clamoring to get in.
"What is the President doing?" one asked from the sidewalk where they had been exiled in blanket punishment for the networks having prematurely reported the President dead and doubting his genuineness upon his return to Washington.
"You have to ask the President's press secretary that," Ayers said.
"She won't return our calls."