Retired Secret Service Agent Smith stepped out from nowhere and said, "You must hurry, sir."
"Smith, you come with us."
"I cannot, Mr. President. I must remain here to continue the investigation. But Remo and Chiun will accompany you to Boston. You will be in good hands."
"I know."
The President started up the blue-carpeted steps, the First Lady holding his arm. Their faces were drained white under the glare of the floodlights.
Vince Capezzi, his MAC-11 at the ready, covered the stairs.
REMO CAME AROUND the corner of the White House in the shelter of the open breezeway, Chiun pumping along at his side.
"There's Smitty," he said. "Looks like the President's on board already."
Chiun nodded. They crossed the rotor-wash-flattened lawn to the waiting helicopter.
"Stay with the President every step of the way," Smith told Remo over the whine of the impatiently turning rotors.
"Gotcha," said Remo.
"No harm will befall the puppet while Sinanju stands beside him," cried Chiun in a firm voice.
"Shh," said Smith, indicating Vince Capezzi with a tilt of his head. "Security."
"Advertising always pays," said Chiun.
Remo started up the stairs, but Chiun blocked him.
"As Reigning Master, I have the honor of going first."
"Suit yourself," said Remo. Chiun floated up the steps, and Remo turned to Vince Capezzi, "You go next."
Capezzi climbed aboard, relief making his face go slack.
Remo turned to Harold Smith, "You know that Santa?"
"Yes?"
"I pulled his cap and whiskers off. Guess who he was?"
"Who?"
"Thrush Limburger."
Smith groaned.
"It's probably another double," said Remo.
"Let us hope so," said Harold Smith fervently.
Then Remo started up the stairs.
The pilot was looking over his shoulder at Remo through the Plexiglas side port. Something about his face made Remo pause.
Something was wrong. Something serious. He wore the impenetrable Ray-Ban Aviators of a Secret Service agent. But on his head sat a black baseball cap emblazoned with the letters CIA.
Remo stopped.
"What is wrong?" Smith called.
Remo said nothing, but his senses were keying up. The rotor noise drowned out any subtle infrasounds. A pungent scent came to his nostrils over the residual scent of gasoline. The smell resembled gasoline, but wasn't. Not quite. It was an astringent smell Remo associated with dry-cleaning establishments.
It took a moment for Remo's brain to put a name to the strong odor. Naphthalene.
Then he looked down.
The blue-carpeted steps under his feet looked too new. They were pristine, as if they had never known the regular tread of feet.
Then Remo realized something was missing.
"Damn!" he said, plunging in.
Inside Marine One, the President and First Lady were buckling up.
"There goes my-I mean your-chance for reelection," the First Lady was saying.
"Evacuate!" shouted Remo.
The President and First Lady looked up, eyes going round, faces stark.
"What?"
"This thing is booby-trapped! Get out now!"
They stared at him in disbelief. Remo reached down toward an empty seat that stank of astringent chemicals and tore the cushions open with steel-hard fingers, exposing heavy plastic sacks filled with an evil red fluid. He slashed one open with the edge of a sharp fingernail, and pungent naphthalene flowed out.
"That stuff will go up like flash paper."
Abruptly the rotors wound up. The craft started to rock and lift.
Remo moved in. His fingers grabbed the safety belts, and they parted like cheesecloth.
"C'mon, Chiun," urged Remo.
The Master of Sinanju moved quickly, pushing the stunned First Family out of their seats.