"Madam, that is none of your concern."
"My husband says you're with the Secret Service."
"I am retired, technically," said Smith.
"And those two who stood outside my bedroom last night guarding us were also Secret Service agents?"
"Yes."
The First Lady's laserlike blue eyes blazed at him. "If any of you are with the Secret Service, then I'm Bess Truman."
Smith said nothing.
"Do you know what the little man in the kimono said to me this morning?"
"I do not," Smith admitted.
"He offered to slay anyone who stood between me and what he called the Eagle Throne in exchange for the Kingdom of Hawaii."
"I am certain you misunderstood him."
"And he called you Emperor Smith and the President a puppet."
"That, of course, is preposterous."
"If he is a puppet, he's my puppet. Do you understand?"
"Yes," said Harold Smith, "I understand."
And the First Lady stormed out.
HURRIEDLY DRESSING, Harold Smith then walked down to the Oval Office in the West Wing of the White House. It felt strange to walk these pale halls so freely, but these were strange times.
Standing before the white door was Remo Williams, dressed in a slate gray Brooks Brothers suit and dark sunglasses.
"I hate this," Remo grumbled when Smith stepped into view. "I haven't worn a suit in years and now I remember why."
"Yes?"
"They itch."
"Your credibility as a Secret Service agent is very important to this mission. Now I must speak with the President. Is he alone?"
"No. Chiun is trying to con him into something, as usual."
"My God," said Smith, knocking in the door.
"It's Smith. I must see you, Mr. President."
The twangy voice called, "C'mon in."
Harold Smith stepped into the Oval Office. He saw that it had been redecorated and wrinkled his nose at the change in tradition. Then he noticed the desk. It was the Resolute desk, constructed from the timbers of the British warship Resolute-the same desk at which President Kennedy had sat when Smith had first met with him three decades before. Smith had read that Johnson had banished it from the White House. It was a shock to see it again after so many years. He shook off the tidal current of memories and cleared his throat noisily.
The President brightened when he saw Smith and waved him over. "Smith! Come join us."
The President was seated in the middle of the deep blue rug before the desk, over the Great Seal of the President stitched into the nap in gold. The Master of Sinanju sat facing him, shimmering in a gold silk kimono.
"Shouldn't you be at your desk, Mr. President?" Smith asked.
"He is less a target seated on the floor," said Chiun.
"It's more relaxing, too," the President added.
Smith cleared his throat. "I just received a visit from the First Lady."
"Don't mind her. She thinks she's co-President. Took over half the West Wing before we even got all moved in."
"She asked me if I were Smith."
"Why wouldn't she? You are Smith."
"Smith at CURE," Smith said firmly. "Mr. President, I must ask for an explanation."
"Oh, that. Shucks. Don't you fret none. She don't know who you really are, except that you're a guy who contacts me from time to time on the net."
"Have I your solemn word that you have never told her about the organization?"
"Haven't breathed a word. And speaking of breathing, have you ever tried any of these breathing exercises my good buddy Chiun is showing me?"
"No, I have not."
"Makes a fella feel like a million bucks. Why, I don't even feel like my after-breakfast snack."
"That is good, Mr. President," said Smith stiffly.
"And he has an idea I really like."
"What is that?" asked Smith, concern edging his voice.
"Chiun thinks we don't really need the Secret Service."
"When you have the best at your beck and call," said Chiun, magnanimously, "all others are superfluous."
The President grinned broadly. "I can go along with that."
"There is only one boon I crave," Chiun said blandly. "A minor trifle."