Abruptly the President hung up and faced Smith. "I'm willing to trust you, Smith, because I trust the judgment of that man. So who is behind this?"
"I hesitate to point the finger of guilt where I am not certain of all my facts."
"I want to hear your ideas."
"The mastermind has great financial and logistical resources. He also has unusual access to Secret Service procedures. He was obviously able to eavesdrop on their transmissions so he could insert his own Marine One into the South Lawn ahead of the real one."
"You blame rogue Secret Service agents?"
"At every incident they were in the thick of it."
"How does Pepsie Dobbins know so much?"
"I suspect she knows very little. She surmises much. We can sort that problem out later."
A knocking came at the door, and then Remo's voice called out, "Smitty. I just had a flash."
Harold Smith hurried to the door and urged, "Not now!"
"Listen a minute. Pepsie's talking about a Director X, right?"
"Yes."
"That's what they call Uncle Sam Beasley. The Director."
"Are you saying Uncle Sam Beasley is behind the conspiracy?"
"You got a better theory?"
"For God's sake, why? What would his motive be."
Remo shrugged. "Who knows. Maybe he thinks the new health-care premiums will drive his theme parks out of business."
Smith rubbed his sharp chin thoughtfully. "It is conceivable," he muttered. "He does have the funds, manpower and technology to accomplish everything we've thus far seen in this plot." Smith stole a look over his shoulder at the waiting figure of the President. "But I cannot tell the President that. For one thing, we allowed Beasley to escape from Folcroft detention. For another, he would scarcely believe that a famous animator considered dead for thirty years is trying to kill him."
"Why don't Chiun and I try to shake some leads out of Pepsie Dobbins? What do we have to lose? We're practically out on the street as it is."
"Whatever you do, don't let yourself be filmed," warned Smith, who then closed the door and straightened his tie and his crestfallen face before turning to the President of the United States.
"Mr. President," he began in an uncomfortable voice. "We may have to revise our working theories."
The President looked skeptical in the extreme.
OUTSIDE THE WHITE HOUSE, Remo and Chiun looked up and down Pennsylvania Avenue.
"I don't see Pepsie," said Remo.
"Nor do I," said Chiun, face gathering into a troubled web.
Remo spotted an ANC microwave van parked on Jackson Place beside Lafayette Park and ran to it. The rear door was unlocked. Yanking it open, he asked the technician at the controls, "Where's Pepsie Dobbins?"
"Back at the studio."
"But she's broadcasting live from the White House lawn."
"What can I say? She's an amazing reporter."
"I get it," said Remo. "Come on, Little Father, let's snag a cab. Pepsie's up to her old tricks again."
INSIDE ANC QUARTERS, Pepsie Dobbins was winding up her live report from the White House.
". . . Stay with ANC News for more on this breaking story. This is Pepsie Dobbins, live from the White House."
The red light winked off, and Pepsie removed her IFP earpiece, carefully unpinning a lapel mike from her green Carolyn Roem dress.
"How'd I do?" she asked.
"Well," said Buck Featherstone, "except for getting Dallas and Houston mixed up, not to mention screwing up Kennedy's middle name, I'd say you did fine."
"No one pays any attention to facts. Just hair and delivery."
"You'd better hope they don't pay attention to backdrops, either," said Buck as they exited the bluescreen studio.
"What are you talking about?"
"Because the White House slide they threw up behind you is a little out of date."
"What do you mean?"
"No Christmas tree on the lawn."
Pepsie made a face. "I don't think anyone will notice."
"You didn't see that tree," Buck said, following Pepsie through the cramped cable-strewn corridors of the ANC Washington news bureau.
"I wouldn't have to electronically enhance my reports if the White House hadn't blocked off Pennsylvania Avenue," Pepsie said in a peevish voice.
A man in a black CIA baseball cap and mirror sunglasses stepped out of the men's room and said, "You know too much, Pepsie Dobbins."
Pepsie whirled. She saw the cap and the sunglasses before she noticed the gun. Buck Featherstone stepped between them, and she heard the dull gunshot reports.
Buck dropped at her feet, his mouth bubbling blood like a dying drinking fountain.
His eyes were wide and full of disbelief. "But-you're my hero," he bubbled.
"Tough," said the man in the CIA cap, lifting his silenced .22 and taking aim at the notch between Pepsie Dobbins's stunned blue eyes.