The steps pulled away into the night.
"Remo! What is it?" Smith asked hoarsely.
"Look at those steps. Where's the Welcome Aboard Marine One sign?"
"Damn," said Vince Capezzi. "I should have noticed that." Lifting his MAC-11, he added, "We can't let him get away."
"No," said Smith. "We'll have it tracked. It may lead to the conspirators."
But the fake Manne One didn't make it as far as the Ellipse between the White House and the Washington Monument. It was rattling over Constitution Avenue when it burst apart in a flat whoof of a sound. It hung there for an awful, indecisive moment.
In flames, it cascaded to the ground, after which it burned merrily. The black smoke soon carried in their direction, smelling of naphthalene.
The President of the United States stared at the crackling pile of twisted metal and said, "I don't understand ...."
"That, Mr. President," Harold Smith said grimly, "was the ultimate escalation. The real thing."
Then, past the blinking red light atop the white obelisk of the Washington Monument, a clattering noise resolved itself into a great olive-green-and-white military helicopter.
"That looks like Marine One," Vince Capezzi breathed.
"It is," said Remo. "The real one."
Grim-faced, Harold Smith turned to the President and said, "Mr. President, we have just witnessed conclusive proof that the conspiracy to kill you is a massive one, involving many persons prepared to trade their lives for your own."
"Don't I know it," the President said thickly.
"I have a suggestion."
"Go ahead."
"Order Marine One back. Let out word that you've died."
"What good will that do?"
"It may flush the conspirators out into the open."
"You're asking me to lie to the American people."
"I am asking you to save your own life. This conspiracy is deep, broad and well capitalized. It will stop at nothing to unseat you. We cannot unravel it if we are spending all our energy trying to preserve your life."
The First Lady said, "What does the Committee on Urban Refugee Empowerment have to do with any of this?"
She was ignored.
Smith went on, "This conspiracy has a definite goal in mind. Some thing or some aim that can only be achieved by your death. Let's give them what they want and see who steps from the shadows to claim victory."
"Then we will harvest their heads and display them as a warning to any who would contemplate similar perfidy," cried Chiun.
The First Lady regarded the Master of Sinanju with horrified eyes, so he added, "And insure universal health care for one and all!"
The First Lady grabbed the President's sleeve. "Do what he says," she hissed. "He makes perfect sense."
Remo rolled his eyes skyward.
Finally the President of the United States said, "I'm in your capable hands, Smith."
PEPSI DOBBINS was beside herself.
Hunkering down in an ANC broadcast van parked on Pennsylvania Avenue near the White House, she found herself a witness to history with no clue as to what was going on.
She grabbed her walkie-talkie. "Buck. Talk to me. What's happening out there?"
"I got it all on tape," Buck said excitedly.
"What did you get?"
"The Secret Service just shot the shit out of Santa Claus."
"What?"
"But it wasn't really Santa. It was Thrush Limburger in disguise."
"Oh, my God. Did he try to kill the President?"
"That's how it looked."
"The conspiracy thickens."
"That's not all. You remember the old Oriental and the guy with thick wrists from the airport?"
"Yeah."
"They were here. They helped hustle the President off as the shooting started."
"Where did he go? The President, I mean."
"Did you hear that dull thump a moment ago?"
"I did."
"No one's saying, but we think it was Marine One. It blew up."
"I'm shooting toward the Washington Monument right now. I think I was the only guy smart enough to sneak off. Everyone else started taping Thrush Limburger's corpse and asking idiot questions."
"There's no such thing as an idiot question in the pursuit of a story," Pepsie snapped.