"Do not speak to me that way," warned the tiny Asian Chiun.
"I was referring to Smith."
"And do not speak to Smith that way," said Chiun.
The director towered over the little Asian. "Who made you cock of the walk?"
"The Master before me."
Before the director could say anything further, the President noticed the TV set. It had been left on and was tuned into a broadcast channel. Congressman Gila Gingold's brick red face filled the screen. There was a chyron in one corner of the screen. It said Live.
"What's he doing on the air live?" the President blurted.
"What's he doing out of St. Elizabeth's?" the director sputtered.
An agent turned up the sound.
". . . demand that the White House officially apologize for floating the obviously untrue story of my institutionalization. A story put out in the obvious and blatant attempt to discredit me."
The camera zoomed past Gila Gingold to a man sprawled on a hospital bed, sleeping on his stomach.
"Which is which?" asked the President.
"The one on his stomach is the gravel worm," said Chiun. "He thinks he is sunning himself."
The camera returned to Gila Gingold's glowering face, and Pepsie Dobbins's disembodied voice asked, "Congressman, why do you suppose the White House has led the general public to believe you attacked the President tonight?"
"Obviously my successful efforts to lead the charge against their universal health-care program in Congress is the chief motivation here."
"And who specifically?"
"I won't name names-except to point out that everyone knows the First Lady is point man on health care."
"Thank you, Congressman Gingold."
Pepsie Dobbins turned to the camera and all but blocked the view of Congressman Gila Gingold.
"Tonight all Washington wonders if the fight over universal health care has reached a new low in political brawling or broken out into open warfare."
An off-screen anchor's voiced asked, "Pepsie, first of all welcome back to ANC News."
"Thank you."
"Secondly, what can you add to the Boston angle to this story?"
"This is no Boston angle," the Secret Service director sputtered.
Then Pepsie Dobbins spoke the words that made the room spin around the Secret Service director's head.
"I have this from a source within the Secret Service itself. The rifle used in the attempt on the President's life tonight was a Mannlicher-Carcano 6.5-caliber military rifle, serial number C2766. This is the same rifle used to assassinate President Kennedy in Dallas, Texas, more than thirty years ago."
"Pepsie, this is stunning. What does it mean?"
"It means," said Pepsie Dobbins, her tomcat eyes bright, "that I may be the next Steinway. Or Steinward. You know."
"I mean," the anchor persisted, "what does this mean to the story?"
"That there is an open conspiracy to kill the President and it has roots that go back eight administrations."
In the White House Secret Service command post, all heads turned toward the director, and all eyes locked with his. They were not happy eyes. The director sympathized. He imagined his own eyes were looking extremely unhappy right about now.
An incoming fax announced itself with a strident beeping, and the director's heart all but stopped as Smith casually reached over to claim it.
"According to this," he announced, "the FBI has a positive fingerprint match for the man who tried to shoot the President."
Everyone stopped breathing for a moment.
"The prints are those of Lee Harvey Oswald."
Chapter 21
"Incredible," said Harold W. Smith as Remo handed another still-warm fax to him.
It was 3:00 a.m. in the Secret Service command post of the White House. For over four hours Smith had been sifting through the raw data from Boston, from St. Elizabeth's and other focal points of the investigation.
"Have you figured it out?" asked the President of the United States.
"Not by any means," admitted Smith.
Remo and Chiun lounged by the door. Whenever someone knocked, they told them to go away.
"This is assistant detail chief Murtha," a nervous voice asked. "The director wants to know if you're finished with the room yet."
"It is not over till the First Lady sings," said Chiun.
"You mean the fat lady sings," corrected Remo.
Chiun shrugged as if the distinction were utterly unimportant.
"Go away," said the President.
Harold Smith leaned back in his chair. Removing his rimless glasses, he rubbed red-rimmed gray eyes. His face was three shades grayer than normal, an indication of his extreme fatigue.
"Mr. President," he began, "I can only tell you what a collation of these reports suggests."
"I'm listening," said the President.