"CNN is showing a tape found at Kennedy's grave where they found that wacko film director Hardy Bricker, dead with his finger in his brain."
"Huh?"
"He committed suicide, though no one can figure out how. He was behind everything."
"It's bad that we lost the story, isn't it?" Pepsie said dimly.
"It's worse that we declared the President dead twice in forty-eight hours. I've been fired. And the only reason I haven't left the building is that I had something to do first."
"What's that?"
"Firing you."
"Oh," said Pepsie Dobbins, who still didn't get it all, but one day would.
Chapter 33
In the White House basement command post, Harold Smith watched the confession of Academy Award-winning Hollywood director Hardy Bricker on CNN. It was being shown for the fourth time.
"Incredible," he said. "It was all a film. No wonder the President was not killed outright the first time. There wouldn't be a story otherwise."
Smith turned in his chair to face Remo and Chiun. "You did an excellent job," he said. "From identifying Bricker as the mastermind to dealing with the Pepsie Dobbins problem."
"Actually Chiun deserves most of the credit," said Remo.
"I taught him everything he knows," added Chiun blandly.
"And CURE is off the hook now that Bricker confessed that RX did in fact symbolize the medical community he was trying to frame, along with Congressman Gingold and Thrush Limburger, among others."
"Another mission successfully completed, and another President saved," Remo said brightly. "All in the line of duty."
"The Secret Service has confiscated the tapes found in Bricker's hotel room," said Smith.
"That ties up that loose end," Remo said, grinning fixedly.
"There is only one thing," said Smith.
Remo and Chiun looked blank.
"The script. They could find no trace of it."
"Oh, that," said Remo. "Bricker had it on him."
"Where is it now?"
Remo hesitated. "I gave it to Chiun."
Smith directed his gaze at the Master of Sinanju. "Master Chiun?"
"Pah, I threw it away."
"Why? It was evidence."
"It was the most inept script I ever read," said the Master of Sinanju. "I was not even mentioned."
Harold Smith looked blank. They stared at one another, all equally blank of face until Smith cleared his throat and said, "Now that the threat to the President is suppressed, it is time we left the White House the way we came in."
"Like thieves in the night?" asked Chiun.
"Security," said Smith, rising to go. "And we have much to do, starting with locating Uncle Sam Beasley, who is still at large."
"No," said Remo. "Starting with finding my parents."
"I will do my best," Smith said.
They followed Harold Smith to the basement boiler room and the secret tunnel to the Treasury Building at a careful distance.
"Remember," Remo whispered to Chiun. "You promise never to tell Smith that I was the one who set Bricker off."
"You will bear that burden to the end of your days!'
"Okay, I'll bear it. But mum's the word."
"And you in return will cook every meal for the next three thousand years."
"You said two thousand," Remo hissed.
"I am including your afterlife in the Christian place of atonement. I will visit you there often when we are both dead."
"I'm sure I'll appreciate the company," Remo said dryly.
"Just remember to steam the rice, not boil it like a lazy white."
"For the next two thousand years or in the afterlife?"
"Both."
As they entered the tunnel under the White House, Remo laughed softly and guiltily.
"Merry Feast of the Pig, Little Father," Remo said warmly.
"The same to you, counterschmuck."