“It proves that the white mind is obsessed with toys, having been poisoned by pagan feasts,” sniffed Chiun. Turning to a guard standing nearby, he said, “We seek the emperor. Direct us, guardian of the castle of Smith.”

  The guard had only to think a moment. “West wing near the escalator,” he said, pointing down a corridor.

  Puzzled, Remo followed Chiun down the corridor.

  They came to a huge marble statue of a seated man wearing a toga that had fallen to his waist. He carried one hand high, and a sheathed sword was clasped in the other.

  “What emperor is this, Remo?” asked Chiun.

  Remo looked up at the statue’s face. He wore his hair long and curled, and not shorn short, as would a Greek or Roman ruler of old, which he otherwise greatly resembled.

  “Search me. Ancient history isn’t my strong suit.”

  “This is no emperor of old,” spat Chiun. “Obviously it is one of the very early rulers of this land.”

  “We have only presidents here,” Remo said distantly, searching the passing faces for Smith’s lemony visage.

  “Did not a British king rule this land at one time?”

  “I guess so,” said Remo vaguely. “I only care about presidents. Sometimes not even them.”

  “I have always suspected that other emperors lurked in the shadows of this nation’s halls,” said Chiun. “Now I am sure of it.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Chiun stepped back, the better to search the statue’s cold stone face with his birdlike eyes. It was strong, with a heavy nose and high forehead. Chiun canted his head this way and that. Then his eyes fell to the broad base of the throne on which the statue sat.

  “Hah! Look, Remo, here is proof of what I have been saying for years.”

  Remo turned and saw the pointing finger of Chiun. He tracked it with his eyes.

  There at the base of the statue was a single name: Washington.

  “It is now clear to me,” cried Chiun. “The Emperor Washington founded this land.”

  “He was President.”

  “Another sham concocted to deceive a gullible populace.”

  “Who would go to all the trouble of carving a twenty-ton statue of George Washington and dress him like Caligula sitting in a steam bath?” Remo wondered aloud.

  A lemony voice behind them said, “His name was Horatio Greenough, and this statue is a famous white elephant that was ejected from the Capitol Building in 1908.”

  They turned to see Harold Smith standing there in his familiar gray suit that he wore like a personal uniform.

  “Pretend to be admiring the statue,” Smith undertoned.

  “I’m not that good an actor,” muttered Remo.

  Chiun bowed low. “Hail Smith, blood descendant of Washington the First.”

  Smith paled and said nothing. He carried a well-worn leather briefcase. “I saw you exit the Smithsonian castle as my cab pulled up. Why did you come here?”

  Remo pointed to the statue of Washington. “Chiun got his emperors mixed up.”

  “Were you followed?” asked Smith.

  “Yes,” said Chiun. “Remo followed me.”

  “I meant by strangers.”

  “No one could follow me.”

  “No,” agreed Remo. “Chiun just told Pepsie Dobbins all about the organization.”

  Smith’s eyes grew large behind his rimless glasses. He wavered on his feet.

  “I merely enlightened an ignorant woman,” said Chiun.

  “Don’t sweat it, Smitty. Word is she was canned for reporting the President’s death prematurely.”

  Smith smoothed his hunter green Dartmouth tie, and the action seemed to stabilize his wobbly sense of balance.

  “I must speak with the President directly,” he said, eyeing the thinning evening crowd so intently that they automatically stared back.

  “We can get you into the White House, if that’s what you want,” said Remo.

  “Yes,” said Chiun. “No palace guard is equal to our stealth and cunning. If you wish to enter quietly, Remo and I will arrange it. If it is your preference that we storm the White Palace, this too is doable.”

  Remo looked at Chiun. “Doable?”

  “It is word very popular in this province,” Chiun said, bland voiced. “We must blend in however we can.”

  Remo looked at Chiun’s gold-trimmed white silk kimono and said, “The only place you’ll blend is at a Communion offering.”

  Chiun wrinkled his nose and said nothing.

  “I have a rental car waiting nearby,” said Smith, starting off.

  · · ·

  Outside, Smith took the wheel, and Remo and Chiun at his tight-jawed insistence sat in the rear where they were less likely to be noticed. Smith drove down Constitution with all the urgency of a Sunday-school teacher, and when the white radiance of the White House came in sight, Smith turned up Fifteenth Street and parked near the Treasury Building.

  Shutting off the ignition, Smith turned and asked, “Remo, I trust you have your Secret Service badge and identification card with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What name does it give?”

  “Remo Eastwood. Why?”

  “You are Remo Eastwood, a special agent out of Dallas. I am Smith, your supervisor.”

  “Just Smith?”

  Smith stepped out, saying, “It is the perfect name if one does not wish to arouse undue notice.”

  “Just as long as no one asks your first name,” said Remo, getting out, too.

  “What is my secret name?” squeaked Chiun as they started up the broad stone steps of the Treasury Building.

  “Moo Goo Gai Pan,” said Remo.

  “I will not be called that. I will be Old Man Lump.”

  “Who?”

  “A famous Korean of renown.”

  Smith hushed them both as they entered the Treasury Building, and led them to the section given over to the Secret Service.

  Smith flashed his ID at the turnstile, introduced Remo as Remo Eastwood out of Dallas and Chiun as expert on assassinations, hired by the service to consult on the attempts on the President’s life.

  They were passed without question.

  “We here to see what the Secret Service is up to?” Remo asked as they moved through the corridors, attracting more than normal interest.

  “No.”

  “Then what–”

  “Do not be ridiculous,” said Chiun. “It is obvious why Smith has come to this Greek money temple.”

  “Not to me,” said Remo.

  “Of course not. You have an illogical mind.”

  Remo followed in silence as Smith led them to a marble staircase that led downward into the building’s subbasement. The way was blocked with a padlocked wrought-iron gate with a sign on it saying Unsafe. Do Not Enter.

  The sign looked as if it had been posted in the days of Harry Truman.

  To Remo’s surprise, Smith took a key from a pocket and opened the fat padlock. A restraining chain rattled loose, and Smith opened the gate. He motioned them to slip through, then replaced the chain and snapped the padlock shut again.

  They went down the cool stone steps, making virtually no noise. At the bottom they came to a huge steel vault door. There was a combination lock. Smith spun it once to clear the dial, then, blocking it with his spare frame, quickly worked the combination. It fell open on silent, well-oiled hinges the size of Amtrak rails.

  “What’s this?” Remo asked as they passed through the vault door. “The secret tunnel to the White House?”

  “Of course,” said Chiun.

  “I wasn’t asking you,” said Remo.

  Smith said, “It is a secret tunnel to the White House.”

  “If it’s so secret, how do you know about it?”

  “This is how I used to visit the President who inaugurated CURE.”

  Remo was so surprised he said nothing. He was used to Chiun coming up with these surprises. Not Harold Smith.

  Chiun closed the vault door behind them. Once it shut, big fluorescent lights came on, revealing a big living area well stocked with food, communications equipment and a small number of beds.

  “In the event of a siege of the White House or a nuclear attack in which they cannot be moved to a secure FEMA site in the Maryland mountains, the First Family will stay here,” Smith explained, his lemony voice small in the great vault.

  An opening on the other side of the vault led into a dark space. A tunnel, smelling faintly of moist brick. Smith led the way.

  The tunnel was not straight. It zigzagged, and Remo realized the design was meant to foil pursuers unfamiliar with it.

  They walked the length of two blocks. Smith’s eyes weren’t equal to the gloom, so Remo had to lead him along, directing Smith by the simple expedient of pulling him along by his tie.

  “They gave you the key but not the location of the light switch?” Remo grumbled at one point.

  “The lights are controlled from the White House end,” Smith said.

  “It is obvious, as well as wise,” said Chiun.

  Remo shot the Master of Sinanju a dark look that Smith missed in the murk.

  The tunnel led to a thick stainless-steel door. Smith said, “There should be a wheel, Remo. Turn it.”

  Remo found a wheel that belonged on a submarine bulkhead door and undogged it. The door opened out, and they passed through to what looked like the boiler room of the White House.

  “Okay,” Remo said tightly, “here comes the tricky part.”

  “The theater is in the East Wing,” said Smith.

  “Just point the way,” said Remo. Smith went to a boarded-up closet door, unlocked it by pressing a corner lintel, then the door clicked open, boards and all.

  Smith beckoned them on.

  They found themselves in a corridor so narrow it had to be a hollow space in the walls. As they squeezed along, Remo noticed Smith reach surreptitiously into the watch pocket of his gray vest. Out came a white coffin-shaped pill. Smith made a protective fist around it.

  Remo eased up and took Smith by the same wrist, twisting it against the natural flex of the joint. Smith clenched his teeth fiercely, and his fingers went slack.

  Remo caught the poison pill in his free hand and released Smith.

  “No poison pill until you find my father for me,” said Remo.

  “What if we are caught?”

  “Then it’s every man for himself.”

  Rubbing his wrists angrily, Harold Smith continued leading the way.

  The White House was strangely quiet. Occasionally footsteps came to their ears. Smith seemed to guide himself by sense of direction and the touch of his hand on the wall. He led them eastward.

  When they emerged into light again, they were standing in an alcove.

  “The White House theater is to our left,” whispered Smith. “This is the critical stage.” He donned a pair of impenetrable sunglasses, adding, “Follow my lead.” Then he stepped out.

  Remo put on his own sunglasses. Unseen, the Master of Sinanju drew on round smoked glasses of his own.

  There was a Secret Service agent standing post before a double set of cream-colored doors.

  Smith showed his Secret Service badge and said, “Has the President arrived yet?”

  “No, sir. The picture is scheduled for seven sharp.”

  “The director requested a double-check of the security arrangements,” said Smith.

  The Secret Service agent reached for his belt radio, and Remo noticed Smith stiffen.

  “Damn, I forgot.”

  “Yes?” said Smith in a too-cool voice.

  “We’re on radio silence.”

  “I know,” said Smith quickly. “And if we’re to check the theater before Big Mac arrives, we must move quickly.”

  “Right,” said the agent, stepping away from the door.

  Then he noticed Chiun regarding him through smoked lenses.

  “Are you Secret Service?”

  Chiun drew himself up proudly. “Better. I am a Secret Servant.”

  “Master Chiun is an expert on assassinations,” Smith said quickly.

  “Expert assassin,” corrected Chiun.

  “His English is not very good,” added Smith, who hastily ushered Remo and Chiun into the tiny theater.

  “Big Mac?” said Remo, once they were alone.

  “Secret Service code name for the President,” explained Smith.

  “Fits him like a glove,” Remo grunted.

  Then, outside the closed doors the sound of running feet preceded a shout.

  “Is the Man here yet?” an out-of-breath voice asked.

  “No,” returned the agent on post.

  “Well, I gotta find him quick! We have a problem on the North Lawn. You try the East Wing, and I’ll head up to the second floor.”

  “Right.”

  The rattle of running feet faded down the corridor, and in the White House theater, Remo said to Smith, “What do we do?”

  “You and Chiun look into this. Discreetly.”

  “What about you?”

  Harold Smith took a seat in the first row.

  “I intend to await the President’s arrival.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Although it was early by Washington standards, the White House began emptying out at 7:00 p.m. Staff were being sent home early under a strict gag order.

  Kirby Ayers of the uniformed Secret Service watched over the turnstiles at the East Gate entrance, where staffers and visitors alike were required to go through the process of inserting their magnetic keycards into a reader machine before walking through the metal detectors.

  The White House press corps, on the other hand, were clamoring to get in.

  “What is the President doing?” one asked from the sidewalk where they had been exiled in blanket punishment for the networks having prematurely reported the President dead and doubting his genuineness upon his return to Washington.

  “You have to ask the President’s press secretary that,” Ayers said.

  “She won’t return our calls.”

  “You pronounced her boss dead on national TV. What do you expect?”

  “But we’re the White House press corps,” another moaned.

  “You have my sympathy,” Ayers said.

  In all the commotion, neither the press nor the uniformed Secret Service guards noticed one of the most famous haircuts in Washington crawl out of the back of a TV microwave van on sprawled arms and legs and clump below eye level through the metal detector.

  He got halfway across the North Lawn before he was picked up by the Secret Service surveillance cameras and the alert was sounded.

  By that time he had splashed into the fountain in the center of the lawn.

  That was where the director of the Secret Service found him when he came pounding out of the North Portico, a detail of agents at his heels.

  “He’s in the fountain, sir,” Jack Murtha said.

  “How did he get through the gate?” the director complained.

  “We think he crawled on his hands and knees while the press had the uniforms distracted.”

  “We can’t have a security breach like this! Big Mac will have my ass flame broiled.”

  When they reached the marble lip of the White House fountain, they saw no sign of anyone.

  “Who’s got a damn flashlight?” the director demanded.

  A flashlight was handed over.

  The director beamed light all through the pool. He caught a flash of something lurking under the cold water. It was mottled green and brown.

  “What the hell is that?” he breathed.

  Then a head rose from the water, and two green eyes looked directly at the director of the Secret Service from under a thick thatch of wet white fur.

  The green eyes were so cold and inhuman the director almost dropped his light. “What in God’s name is that?” he said hoarsely.

  Another flash came into play.

  “That hair sure looks familiar,” Jack Murtha muttered.

  “Look at those eyes. Like a snake’s. They don’t even blink in the light.”

  “You! Come out of there with your hands up,” Murtha commanded.

  The baleful green eyes continued to regard the cluster of agents with cold menace. Bubbles began to appear in the area of his submerged mouth.

  Then slowly and deliberately the head lifted into view.

  “Holy Hell!” Murtha blurted. “That’s Gila!”

  “What?”

  “Congressman Gila Gingold, minority whip in the House of Representatives.”

  “My God! It is him. But what the hell is he doing here?”

  The question hung in the air less than five seconds. Without warning, the figure in the pool gathered itself and came splashing out of the pool on clumsy arms and legs, head held high like a turtle, jaws snapping angrily.

  Delta Elites snapped in line.

  “Hold your fire!” the director cried. “You can’t shoot him. He’s a member of Congress and the opposition party to boot. Think of the stink.”

  Hastily the Secret Service beat a retreat to the North Portico, heads turning often.

  It was a frightening sight. Gila Gingold, dressed in jungle fatigues, slithered along the winter brown lawn on his belly. He charged up to the North Portico, where the director promptly slammed the door in his pugnacious face.

  Gila Gingold flopped around the doorway, threshing like a bull snake and snapping his jaws angrily. He growled once but didn’t say a word otherwise.

  “What the hell is wrong with him?” the director wondered aloud in a horrified voice.

  “You know what a pit bull he is where Big Mac is concerned.”

  “Looks like he wigged out completely–”

  “We’d better inform the Man,” the director said.

  “How? We’re on radio silence.”

  “I’ll do it personally,” said the director.

  He withdrew into the White House proper.

  “You know,” Jack Murtha said to his fellow agents as the House minority whip paced on all fours back and forth before the entrance to the executive mansion, “he kinda reminds me of something.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” said another. “But I can’t put my finger on it.”

  After five minutes the camouflaged figure slithered back to the fountain and slipped from sight.