Remo turned from the rocking van, his eyes flat. "This an example of the new you?" he asked dryly.
"Do not worry, Remo," Chiun assured him. "Deep down, I am still the same person I always was."
Spinning on his heel, the old man marched toward the main entrance.
"That's what worries me," Remo muttered.
He trailed the Master of Sinanju through the throng of press to the hospital.
Chapter 9
According to Smith, the former President was in a private east-wing suite on the eighth floor. Remo intended to ride the elevator up to eight, but the car had other plans. It stopped on the sixth floor. The doors slid open on the solemn face of a muscular Secret Service agent. A thin white cord ran from jacket to ear.
"I'm sorry, but you can't go any higher," the agent insisted.
"Sure, I can," Remo said.
He pressed the button for the eighth floor, and the doors began to slide shut. The Secret Service agent pushed them back open.
"The eighth floor has been evacuated."
"But Aunt Iggy's expecting us," Remo informed him.
"There's been an emergency," the agent explained. "A gas leak."
"Sounds like Aunt Iggy." Remo nodded to Chiun.
"Stop being stupid," Chiun said. He jabbed a nail-into the eighth-floor button. The doors slid silently shut ...and promptly opened once more.
"The elevators will not function above this level," the agent informed them, "Because of the gas leak, floors seven through ten have been completely evacuated. If you're looking for a patient, I'd advise you to try the main desk."
Remo shook his head. "Nothing's ever easy," he mumbled. "And next time, I'd suggest the brain trust at Treasury come up with a better cover story. If the Secret Service is worried about gas leaks, you could've stayed in Washington. After his regular six Big Mac breakfast, the guy in the White House has it coming out both ends."
At Remo's mention of the Secret Service, the agent was instantly alert. A hand darted beneath his jacket.
Before the man even touched the butt of his automatic, Remo's own hand flew forward. He pinched a spot at the agent's elbow, locking the man's arm in place.
Desperate, the Secret Service man clamped on the wrist microphone in his other hand. It wasn't there. Trailing wires, the unit had been plucked from his belt. The earpiece came loose with a loud pop. When the agent glanced up, Chiun was examining the radiomicrophone.
"Are you able to hear The Jack Benny Program on this device?" he asked.
"You men are in deep trouble," the Secret Service agent threatened in reply. He yanked at his frozen arm. It wouldn't budge.
"No, Little Father," Remo supplied.
"A shame," Chiun said, shaking his head. "I used to listen to his program many years ago in Sinanju. He was quite amusing. Although Rochester was the true star."
With a blur of tapered fingers, he smashed the entire radio transceiver to shards.
"There's no way out," the agent warned. "Give it up."
"In a sec," Remo promised. "Questions first." As the Secret Service agent complained, Remo used his elbow grip to bounce the man into a nearby room. Two vacant beds with crisp white sheets were pushed against the wall.
"Okay, what's the deal?" he demanded after the Master of Sinanju closed the door behind them. "The guy bumped his head. I'm assuming you aren't all here to deliver aspirin."
The agent refused to reply. Screwing his mouth tightly shut, he leveled his eyes on the closed door. Remo pinched the agent's elbow.
Bolts of white-hot fiery acid burst from the joint, exploding out into his extremities. He gasped in pain.
"The old President was kidnapped," the man blurted.
Remo's stomach tightened. "Kidnapped? When?"
"Hours ago. Early morning." The agent's eyes were watering.
Remo glanced at the Master of Sinanju. "Looks like this is bigger than we thought," he said grimly.
"Why is that?" Chiun sniffed. "If one of your rulers is missing, vote yourselves another. Every time I turn around, you people are anointing a new one. What this nation needs is the stability only a lifelong despot can bring."
Remo wished he could share the old Korean's cavalier attitude. He turned his attention back to the Secret Service man. "Any leads?" he pressed, squeezing tighter.
"None that I'd be privy to." The agent winced. "The President's detail was shot. Lot of other people, too. Doctors, nurses. No witnesses. They got away scot free."
Remo's brow was dark. "What about all those ditzes out front with cameras?"
"Kidnappers used a back exit. No press there."
"Security cameras?"
"I don't know." The agent was pleading by now. He had given up everything he knew. Wordlessly, Remo tapped a single finger dead center in the man's forehead. The Secret Service agent stiffened as if in shock, then the air slipped from him and he slumped forward. Remo dumped the unconscious agent onto one of the empty beds.
"So much for the simple assignment," he groused as he flung a blanket over the man.
"Do not complain to me," the Master of Sinanju warned, folding his arms. "You were never called Chinese in a major film franchise. Everything else pales in comparison."
"I thought we weren't talking about that," Remo said, only half listening. He was trying to think what their next move should be. "And this is much worse. Smith said the old President remembered all about us."
"Good," Chiun retorted with a satisfied nod. "Let the aged one sing our praises from the rooftops of the nation he once led. Maybe I will finally get some proper recognition."
"Smitty'd love that," Remo grumbled. "Speaking of which, I'd better call him. He's gonna want to know about this if he hasn't already heard."
Cruel face etched in lines of deep concern, Remo reached for the room phone.
HAROLD SMITH HAD LEARNED Of the former President's kidnapping an hour earlier. Although the news had not yet filtered out to the mainstream press, it was spreading like wildfire through official government channels. It was only a matter of time before the public learned of the abduction.
A blue bottle of antacid sat on Smith's desktop. He had opened the bottle three times in the past sixty minutes. Given the nature of the crisis, there was no sense putting it away.