The gate guard said nothing.

  “I want radio silence from this moment on,” the director snapped.

  “Sir?”

  The director indicated the press microwave vans parked outside the White House with a toss of his gray head.

  “The Grim Ghouls are probably prowling our band even as we speak.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The director was escorted to the Secret Service command post in the basement of the West Wing and repeated the order to the assistant chief of the White House detail, Jack Murtha.

  Belt radios were immediately shut off.

  “What’s this about Big Mac going for a jog?” the director wanted to know.

  Murtha said, “It’s true, sir. We pleaded with him to reconsider, but he was insistent.”

  “He took his detail with him?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The director of the Secret Service heaved a slow, relaxed sigh. At least the President still trusted his personal guard.

  “What’s the latest from Boston?” he demanded.

  “Another fax coming in now.”

  “What have we got so far?”

  Jack Murtha went pale as a pear. “Morgue photos on the shooter and the subject who took him out.”

  “Let me see.”

  The photos were handed over.

  “Damn, if that doesn’t look like Oswald,” the director said as agents gathered around him.

  “If that’s Oswald, who’s buried in his grave?”

  “And this guy does kinda resemble Ruby,” an agent pointed out.

  “Ruby was older,” the director said. “If the shooter is Oswald plus thirty years, why is this other guy younger than Ruby?”

  “Plastic surgery?” someone piped up.

  “No theories. I want facts. We’ll get into theories later.”

  “Sir, this fax is from the Boston medical examiner. A preliminary examination of the body reveals a mastoid scar and evidence of wrist slashing in the not-recent past.”

  “Damn! Oswald had scars like those.”

  “This can’t be Oswald, can it?”

  “I hope to God it’s not,” said the director, plugging his own faxphone in. “But let’s get Oswald’s prints out of storage and make sure.”

  “Which Oswald?”

  “Both!” snapped the director. He dialed the local phone company and said, “This is the Secret Service. Reroute all calls from 555-6734 to this line.”

  The moment he hung up, the faxes began coming up. He lifted them off the tray as fast as they came, reading them with a face growing loose with the succession of shocks.

  “Damn. Damn. Damn.”

  The other agents looked up expectantly.

  “According to this, the serial number of that Mannlicher-Carcano is identical to the one Oswald used on Kennedy.”

  The other agents looked so blank they might have fainted on their feet.

  The director looked up. “Anybody know where that damn gun ended up?”

  “National archives.”

  “Check this out.”

  A hasty call later, Jack Murtha was saying, “Are you sure? Are you absolutely positively certain it’s still there? Well, go look!”

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “National archives say the rifle is still there, but they’re looking anyway.”

  “God help them if they let that goddamn rifle out of their hands,” the director said flatly.

  A moment later word came back. “Director, they swear up and down the rifle is still under lock and key.”

  “Send a man over to double-check? No, do it yourself. Call me the instant you verify this and then call Boston to double-check their serial number. Damn! There can’t be two rifles with the same serial number.”

  “What if there are?”

  “If there are, we not only have a mess on our hands, but we may have to reopen the Kennedy hit, as well.”

  Later the phone rang, and a uniformed Secret Service agent reported, “Big Mac is back at Crown. Repeat, Big Mac is back at Crown.”

  “Stop talking like that. This is the telephone.”

  “Sorry, sir. Habit.”

  “Get word to the Man I’m on station.”

  “Roger. I mean, at once, sir.”

  Less than a minute later the telephone rang, and the President’s breathlessly hoarse voice was saying, “See me in the Oval Office.”

  When he reached the Oval Office door, the director found the way blocked by three special agents instead of the usual one.

  “Good thinking,” he said.

  “Identify yourself, sir,” the middle agent said stiffly.

  “You know who I am. Let me pass.”

  “President’s orders, sir. Sorry.”

  “I’m hearing that word a lot,” the director said, snapping out his ID.

  “No sudden movements if you please,” an agent cautioned.

  “I hate the word sorry. Sorry means failure. It says, ‘I do my job sloppily.’”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When his ID was inspected and approved by all three agents, the door was opened and the director was ushered in. Once it was shut, he crossed the blue rug, saying, “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. President. I want you to know that I will leave no turn unstoned–er...stone unturned–to get to the bottom of the fiasco in the ranks this afternoon.”

  The President waved him to a chair.

  The director sat. His eyes fell on the President’s T-shirt.

  “Isn’t Smith a women’s college, Mr. President?”

  “Borrowed my wife’s T-shirt,” the President said tightly.

  “Didn’t she go to Wellesley?”

  “Never mind,” the President said testily. “I want to hear about Boston.”

  The director’s face fell. “We’re still developing our Intelligence.”

  “Tell me what you have so far.”

  “It’s very confusing. It really should be digested by professional analysts before you look at it. Certain facts could be misleading. Very.”

  “I don’t give a rip. I want to hear what you have. You have been investigating this, haven’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” the director said, clearing his throat. He did it three times before the Presidential glare forced him to cough up.

  “We have the shooter.”

  “Alive or dead?”

  “Dead.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His driver’s license says he’s Alek James Hidell.” The President made a face. “Seems to me I’ve heard that name before.”

  The director of the Secret Service thought fast. “I was thinking that myself. We suspect it’s not his real name. But we’re not sure,” he added quickly. “Anything is possible. Anything.”

  “Accomplices?”

  “A man whose identity we have not yet determined killed him.”

  “Christ! This sounds like Jack Ruby.”

  “Yes,” the director of the Secret Service said in a sincere voice, “it sounds very much like Ruby. Yes, indeed.”

  “So we have to assume a conspiracy?”

  “I would not assume anything at this point. We are running the man’s prints and should have something shortly.”

  “Is there anything else I should know?” the President asked.

  “I have a great many loose facts, but again I caution you against trying to make a clear picture out of disconnected pieces of the jigsaw.”

  “Is there a motive? Any indications of confederates or claims of responsibility?”

  “No claims. But it’s just a matter of hours. Once details get out, the usual terroristic cells and fringe political splinter groups will all be claiming credit. And, of course, we have to look out for the copycat factor–”

  The President frowned.

  “Bad choice of words. You know what I mean, emulators. There is always someone who thinks there’s glory in finishing a job another guy blew.”

  “I know,” the President said somberly.

  “I would like to recommend that you keep a low profile over the next week. At least a week.”

  “I have universal health care to push.”

  At that moment the First Lady came rushing in without bothering to knock.

  “This just came off the net,” she said breathlessly.

  The printout was slapped on the desk. The President looked at it briefly.

  He handed it back to the First Lady and said, “See to it. Tonight.”

  “What good will renting an old Jimmy Stewart movie do?” the First Lady asked testily.

  “Trust me on this one.”

  The director of the Secret Service looked interested. “Is there something here I should be apprised of?” he asked politely.

  “No!” the President and the First Lady said with equal vehemence.

  The director looked at them both. As the First Lady marched from the Oval Office, he leaned forward and said, “Mr. President, if I am to do my job, I need to know that I have your full confidence.”

  “You do. Your agents do not. I want the White House detail rotated out. Everyone except Capezzi. He saved my life.”

  The director swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

  “And I want the incoming detail agents closely watched.”

  “By whom?”

  “Other agents. Work it out. I want no more incidents like this afternoon. It’s bad enough the nation thinks its President has been blown away by some crazy. But if it gets out the Secret Service almost did him in, it will sound to the world as if there’s a coup brewing.”

  “Don’t even say that word,” the director said fervently as he stood up to go.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “How was your flight?” asked Remo when the Master of Sinanju stepped from the gate at Washington National.

  “The wing did not fall off,” said Chiun, his face a composed web of deep seams.

  “A lucky streak like that can’t go on forever.”

  “It has not. I was forced to sit near a very rude and unimportant woman.”

  “Tough. All the way down I had to hear about how evil assassins are.”

  “Ignorance blights this land like no other,” said Chiun, walking along with his hands tucked safely into the sleeves of his kimono. “I understand the puppet lives.”

  “Yeah. But he’s not out of the woods yet.” Eyeing the lavender silk, Remo said, “I hope you came with a few spare kimonos.”

  “You never hope that.”

  “Normally. But Smith is coming down. And he specifically asked that we avoid attracting attention.”

  “It would be better if enemies knew that the House of Sinanju had come to protect him.”

  “We can protect him in a quieter kimono than lavender.”

  When they reached the baggage carousel, the Master of Sinanju undertoned, “There is the rude one.”

  Remo stared. “Isn’t that Pepsie Dobbins?”

  “I did not ask her unimportant name,” sniffed Chiun.

  “Yeah, that’s her.”

  “She demanded my seat, claiming she was more important that me.”

  “Not since she blew the report on the President, from what I hear. People want to see her strung up.”

  “I have put her in her place, do not fear.”

  “Good,” said Remo, watching luggage start to drop down the chute.

  “I have told her that I work for Emperor Smith and not the puppet President,” added Chiun.

  “That’s good,” said Remo, starting forward when he saw the first of a possible fourteen lacquered steamer trunks come sliding down. Remo caught himself in midstride.

  “Wait a minute! What did you say?”

  “What I have just told you,” said Chiun.

  “You didn’t?”

  “I did.”

  “She’s a freaking reporter.”

  “She is a freaking fool intoxicated on the smell of her own vanity. Now, do not let my trunk be stolen by cretins.”

  Because the risk to the trunks was real, Remo started pulling them off the belt as soon as they came by.

  “Only three?” he asked when the conveyor belt finally stopped.

  “I was in a hurry,” said Chiun.

  Remo looked up. There was no sign of Pepsie Dobbins.

  But as he carried the three trunks out of the airport, Remo spotted her at a cab stand. Unfortunately Pepsie spotted him, too.

  She came up saying, “We meet again.”

  “I do not know you,” said Chiun disdainfully.

  Pepsie ignored the Master of Sinanju. “Who are you?” she asked Remo.

  Noticing one hand stuffed in her big purse, Remo said, “Remo Wayne Bobbitt.”

  Pepsie made a notch with her eyebrows. “I know that name.”

  “I’m famous for my detached personality,” said Remo. “It gets me on all the talk shows.”

  Pepsie indicated Chiun. “Are you with him?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “He tells the most interesting stories.”

  “He has A-L-Z-H-I-M-E-R-S,” said Remo, spelling out the word. When Pepsie seemed slow getting it, he added. “You know, S-E-N-I-L-E.”

  “You left out the e, P-E-N-I-L-E one,” sniffed Chiun.

  Both Remo and Pepsie looked blank, and the Master of Sinanju cackled softly to himself.

  Pepsie said. “Want to share a ride to–”

  “The White House,” said Chiun.

  “Pay no attention to him,” Remo said hastily. “We are not going to the White House.”

  “It is where we are headed,” said Chiun.

  “We’re going to our hotel,” insisted Remo, eyeing Pepsie.

  “Which hotel is that?” asked Pepsie.

  “Are you always this nosy?” asked Remo.

  “I’m not nosy. I’m just trying to save a few dollars. Maybe we can split a cab.”

  “You can have both halves of my cab,” said Remo, setting down the three steamer trunks and folding his arms stubbornly.

  “What are you doing, Remo?” asked Chiun.

  “Waiting for a cab I like.”

  Chiun gestured to the waiting line. “I see many cabs.”

  “I don’t see one in a color I like,” Remo said flatly, staring Pepsie Dobbins full in the eye.

  “What color are you looking for?” Pepsie wanted to know.

  “One that doesn’t clash with your hair,” said Remo, turning his back on her.

  After ten more minutes of fruitless conversation, Pepsie Dobbins got the message and threw her traveling bag into the trunk of a cab and said, “ANC Studios.”

  A man Remo mistook for a cabbie on break, followed her into the cab and said to the driver, “And take the direct route. I know how you guys rob unwary tourists like us.”

  After the cab had departed, Remo turned to the Master of Sinanju and said, “Nice move. Smith said to play it cool, and you practically tell the press about the organization.”

  “No one would believe a woman who claims to be in one place while actually standing in another.”

  The next cab in line slid up.

  “I thought you didn’t recognize her,” said Remo, opening the door.

  “I did not want her to know that,” said the Master of Sinanju as he slipped into the rear of the cab.

  · · ·

  During the cab ride to the studio, Pepsie Dobbins popped a fresh tape into her cassette deck and said, “I’ve been dying to do this. Give me a crash course in assassinology.”

  She clicked on the recorder and held it up to the cab driver’s face. The driver in the back of the cab, not the one driving.

  “First,” he said, “everything you know about this stuff is wrong. Oswald didn’t shoot Kennedy, and Sirhan didn’t shoot the other Kennedy.”

  “Were they part of the same conspiracy?”

  “That part nobody’s figured out yet. But don’t let me get ahead of myself here.”

  “You should give me your name for the record.”

  “I was wondering when you’d get around to that. For a hotshot reporter, you’re kinda sloppy on the details.”

  “Your name, please,” Pepsie requested aridly.

  “Aloycius X. Featherstone.”

  “I hope you have a nickname.”

  “People call me Buck. On account I like to turn one now and again.”

  “Keep talking, Buck.”

  “Like I was saying, nobody you think shot anybody, actually did. It’s all cover-ups. Nothing that got out so far is the truth, so help me God. Ray didn’t kill King.”

  “Slow down. Who’s Ray and who’s King?”

  “James Earl Ray and Martin Luther King.”

  Pepsie frowned. “Why does everybody have three names?”

  “That’s another good point. Three-name guys are very big in this business. Don’t ask me why. But whenever you come across a three-name guy, he’s usually the killer or the victim.”

  “You just said that Oswald didn’t kill Kennedy. He’s a three-name guy.”

  “It wasn’t Oswald. It was Alek James Hidell. That was his real name. Oswald was what he always said he was–a patsy.”

  “Is there a beginning we can start at?”

  “You should see that movie.”

  “What movie?”

  “What one about Oswald and Kennedy that Hardy Bricker directed, CIA. It lays it all out, except the answers.”

  “Then what good is it?” Pepsie responded.

  “You gotta know the right questions to ask, or the answers you’re gonna get won’t be worth squat. That was the problem with the Warren Commission Report. Those stiffs asked the wrong questions and they got answers that to this day are no good.”

  “I should read a copy of the Warren Report, shouldn’t I?”

  “Maybe we can find one in one of those government bookstores.”

  “Good idea.” Pepsie leaned forward. “Driver, find me a bookstore that carries the Warren Report.”

  “They don’t carry it in bookstores,” the driver called over the honking of Washington traffic. “You’re better off trying the library.”

  “How would you know?” Buck asked the cab driver.

  The cabbie shrugged and said, “I’m a buff. And that guy is handing you a load of crap, lady. Oswald shot Kennedy, all right. On orders from the mob.”

  Buck shook his head vehemently. “No. It was a CIA operation all the way.”

  “The mob. The Chicago mob. It was Carlos Marcello and those guys. They had the means, motive and opportunity. They were after Robert Kennedy, who was busting their balls all over the place. They didn’t care about Jack. They figured if Jack was croaked, Lyndon would shitcan Bobby. End of problem. If they whacked Bobby, Jack would be in a position to nail them to the fucking wall. Which I can assure you, they did not want.”