Smith suppressed a groan.
"I have toiled in this land for many years, along with my pupil, Remo."
"America appreciates your loyalty," said the President.
"A loyalty that has hitherto been paid for in gold."
"So I understand."
"Gold is good. But I am an old man, having seen more than eighty summers. I crave something, a minor token of respect that no Master-not even the Great Wang-has been granted by an emperor."
"Just name it."
"No pharaoh, no caliph, no emir of old has ever offered this to Sinanju."
"I'm listening."
Chiun raised a hopeful finger. He beamed.
"Universal health care is the boon I crave."
"I'm working on that right now. In another year or two, we may be able to ram something through the Hill."
Chiun shook his aged head. "I care not for your hills. I wish only that my pupil and I receive adequate health care in return for our dangerous service."
"Smith, see to it."
"Yes, Mr. President," said Harold Smith, relieved that the Master of Sinanju had not asked for something difficult, like a state capital for his personal use.
The phone on the President's desk rang, and he reached up to take the receiver down.
"What is it?" he asked brightly.
The President listened intently. His buoyant mood quickly darkened. "Just what I needed," he said unhappily. "Thanks, George." The President turned to Harold Smith. "If we don't have enough troubles, that tub of guts Thrush Limburger just blew into town to stir the embers."
"Speak the word, and his head will adorn your highest flagpole," cried Chiun.
The President brightened. "Can he do that?" he asked Smith.
"Under no circumstances can I permit this," Smith said quickly.
"Maybe we can just kinda embarrass him a touch."
Chiun bowed his aged head. "I am your eternal servant, O generous dispenser of universal health care."
Smith interrupted, "Mr. President, I strongly disagree with that idea. We will need Remo and Chiun to follow any leads to the person or organization behind these attempts on your life, and frivolous expenditures of their time are contrary to the operational parameters of CURE."
"Shucks," said the President of the United States. Turning to the Master of Sinanju, he said, "Tell me more about how I remind you of Emperor Nero ...."
Chapter 23
Thrush Limburger plopped his three-hundred-odd pounds into the heavy-duty swivel chair of the mobile broadcast RV parked on the concrete plaza in front of the Capitol Building.
He cleared his throat noisily.
His assistant, Cody Caster, threw him a cue, and the red On Air sign went on. Thrush leaned into the microphone, and his basso profundo voice boomed out clear as controlled thunder.
"From occupied Washington, this is Thrush Umburger, the voice of the Tell the Truth network. Welcome, friends. We've braved the urban perils of the District of Columbia to bring you the truth. Something is rotten in the White House, and we're going to get to the bottom of it. Let's start by asking a few deceptively simple questions."
Thrush tapped a chime with a small hardwood mallet. It hit middle C.
"Why has the White House started a smear campaign against my good friend and fellow champion of right, the esteemed congressman from Georgia, Gila Gingold?"
Thrush tapped the chime again.
"Why has the President refused to make a public appearance since the alleged-note that underscore-alleged attempt to pot him yesterday?"
Thrush tapped the chime a third time.
"Are things what they seem to be? Well, my friends, if you know anything about Washington politics, you know that just isn't so."
The chime reverberated again.
"The President is on the ropes on this health-care thing. You know it and he knows it. Most of all, the First Lady knows it."
Thrush made his voice confidential.
"Suppose-just suppose, mind you-the President, looking to revive his doomed health-care scheme, arranges for a little artificial sympathy. Now, I'm not suggesting that a Secret Service agent was sacrificed to bring this about-accidents do happen-but consider these incontrovertible facts.
"Number one, the President returned to the White House and everyone goes into bunker mode. The first to go were the White House press corps. Tossed into the street like so much garbage.
"Normally you want to reassure the nation that you're okay. Unless-you're not okay.
"Why doesn't the President come out and show his face? Is he dead? Is he afraid? Has there been a coup? Is the clumsy attempt to tar the good name of Congressman Gingold a smoke screen to cover up what's really going on? We here at the Triple-T network are not just throwing out these questions to hear the dulcet tones of our own voice-enthralling though they may be-but to get the cold, hard facts. To that end, I hereby issue a challenge to the President to show himself to the American people and prove that it is indeed he and not some nefarious double occupying the Oval Office. If the President would like to call in, we'll put him on the air. In the meantime, I want to hear your thoughts on this latest-dare I say it?-whitewash. First caller."
"Thrush," said a hoarse voice.
"Yes?"
"Do you recognize my voice?"
"You do sound suspiciously like the President." Thrush admitted with a chuckle. "But, of course, so do half a dozen stand-up comics these days."
The hoarse voice acquired an edge. "Thrush. Get stuffed."
"That, of course, was not the Chief Executive, appearances to the contrary," said Thrush Limburger. "But we do encourage him to call in."