“That never happened, you stegosaur!” Gingold roared.

  “Then why have you been committed to St. Elizabeth’s? Allegedly?”

  “Idiot!” snapped Gila Gingold, slamming down the phone and grabbing his overcoat. He was so mad he knocked the plastic kronosaur to the floor without noticing. When he slammed the office door after him, the array of plastic tyrannosaurs, allosaurs and velociraptors shook on their shelves.

  · · ·

  At St. Elizabeth’s, no one in authority would talk to Pepsie Dobbins.

  “Are you denying Gila Gingold has been committed here?” she insisted. “Remember, you’re on camera.”

  They were in the office of the hospital’s spokesman. Behind Pepsie, Buck Featherstone sighted through the ANC videocam lens and hoped he was pressing the right button.

  “I am neither confirming nor denying it,” said the official spokesman for St. Elizabeth’s Hospital.

  “That’s no answer.”

  A man walking on very hard heels tramped up behind them and demanded to know, “Who’s in charge around here?”

  Recognizing the voice, Pepsie turned. Seeing Gila Gingold, face red with anger under his white thatch of hair, she struck Buck in the arm and hissed, “Film everything that happens!”

  She shoved her mike into Gingold’s perpetually red face and asked, “Congressman Gingold, what do you say about reports that you were taken away from the White House tonight after an unsuccessful attack on the President’s life?”

  “I deny them absolutely,” Gingold snapped, voice thundering with indignant rage.

  Pepsie whirled on the hospital spokesman and said, “Obviously Congressman Gingold hasn’t been committed here. So why do you refuse to deny the rumor?”

  The spokesman looked confused. “But–but he is here.”

  “Show me,” Congressman Gingold said.

  “This way, Congressman,” said the spokesman.

  “We’re coming, too,” said Pepsie triumphantly.

  “No, you’re not,” the spokesman retorted on the run.

  “Congressman, the only way you’re going to quash this vicious maligning of your character,” said Pepsie breathlessly, following Gingold down the immaculate hallways, “is with raw footage.”

  “Stick with me,” Gingold bit out.

  In a private ward on the fourth floor, they were taken to a private room where a man lay sedated. He was sleeping on his stomach, his arms hanging over the sides of the bed.

  “We keep turning him over on his back,” an orderly said, “but he keeps flopping over like that.”

  Gila Gingold strode up and lifted the man’s head by his thick hair. “That’s not me.”

  “It sure looks like you,” Pepsie said.

  “I’m handsomer. Vastly.”

  “Maybe it’s your brother.”

  “I don’t have any brother and I demand St. Elizabeth’s Hospital issue a statement categorically denying that I’m being held for observation.”

  “According to this chart you are,” Pepsie said, indicating the clipboard at the foot of the bed. “See, it says Gila Gingold.”

  “I will sue this institution out of existence before I let this outrage go any further,” thundered Gila Gingold.

  “We’re under Secret Service instructions to release no information about this patient,” the spokesman stammered.

  “Somebody is going to pay for this.”

  Pepsie lifted the mike and asked, “Congressman, do you want to make an official statement for broadcast?”

  “You’re damn right I do,” said Congressmen Gila Gingold, pivoting to a perfect two-shot with Pepsie Dobbins.

  At that moment two Secret Service agents came pounding into the room to wrestle Gila Gingold to the floor. “How the hell did you get loose?” one grunted.

  “Tell them I’m the real Gingold,” the congressman shouted as he straggled on the floor.

  Pepsie turned to Buck and hissed, “Are you getting this on tape?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” Raising her voice, Pepsie said, “You’ve got the wrong Gingold. The other one’s still in bed.”

  On the bed the sleeping Gila Gingold flippered his arms and legs as if swimming through a dream lake.

  It took twenty minutes to straighten it all out. By that time Pepsie Dobbins couldn’t be more pleased. She had yards of tape, and it was coming up on eleven o’clock.

  · · ·

  Congresssman Gila Gingold’s vociferous denial aired on the eleven o’clock news nationwide. All of official Washington saw it.

  In the White House family quarters, the First Lady said, “Damn!”

  In his pizza-box-strewn New York apartment, Thrush Limburger jumped up and said, “Washington, here I come!”

  And in the White House subbasement Secret Service command post, all hell broke loose.

  Chapter Twenty

  The director of the Secret Service hated stonewalling. It was not his job to hold information back from his boss, the President. But this was a special case. It wasn’t just a matter of his job. The honor and integrity of the service were at stake.

  An assassin wearing a Secret Service countersniper windbreaker had tried to kill the President of the United States and had been slain in return by a service-issue Delta Elite. Everything smacked of Dallas.

  If the attempt on the President’s life had any connection to the service–any at all–then the service was all but headed for mothballs. Hell, it had almost happened in the aftermath of Dallas anyway. Every agent knew that. It was the service’s darkest hour, the event that haunted every agent’s waking life and deepest slumber.

  So when the President showed up at the command post in the White House subbasement with three of the strangest people he had ever seen in tow, the director thought fast.

  “We’re still developing the incoming Intelligence,” he said quickly, even before the three could be introduced.

  The beeping of the fax brought an agent hurrying out of his seat to pluck a sheet of paper from the tray. He glanced at it and seemed to lose two shades of color.

  “Is there a problem?” the white-haired man in the gray suit and dark glasses asked in a lemony voice.

  “And you are?”

  “Smith. Secret Service. Retired.”

  “He’s agreed to come back to help us out,” the President added.

  “Back? Where did you serve?”

  “Dallas.”

  The director swallowed hard and hoped it wasn’t noticed. Did they suspect? If they suspected the truth, it was already all over.

  “And this is Special Agent Remo Eastwood, along with Chiun, who is an expert on assassins.”

  “You?” asked the director, looking down at the tiny Asian in the white-and-gold kimono and smoked glasses.

  “You will reveal all that you know,” he said.

  “Why don’t we start with security video of the two incidents here in Washington?” The director turned and said, “Jack.”

  Jack Murtha popped a cassette into a VCR, and they gathered around to watch.

  “We had all the video from the different monitors edited together for easy analysis. You’ll see.”

  The video was a kaleidoscope of agents running to and fro, trying to catch the nimble black-and-white cat that strongly resembled Socks. At first it was comical, until the cat, cornered, started attacking.

  “It started off acting like a typical cat,” the director narrated, “then all of a sudden, it turned lion.”

  The video had caught it turning on two Secret Service agents, leaping up, ripping at their throats with its teeth and hanging on, as if by sheer tenacity it could drag its victims to the ground.

  “Here it looks as if it’s actually trying to drag Special Agent Reynolds away, but obviously its strength wasn’t enough,” the director said.

  The footage that followed was even more chaotic, but it showed clearly the desperate attempt by the Secret Service detail to capture the crazed cat before it could reach the President.

  “As you can see, Mr. President,” the director said when the footage ended, “the White House detail was clearly trying to save you from what it believed was a rabid animal.”

  The President looked unconvinced.

  Agent Eastwood turned to the tiny Oriental, Chiun, and asked, “What do you think?”

  “I think tiger.”

  “Say again?”

  “Not lion. Tiger. That cat thinks it is a tiger.”

  “Why makes you say that?” the President asked.

  “Because if it thought it was a lion, it would have bitten those men on the rump to bring them down. It seized their throat in its jaws. A tiger brings his prey down thus. Therefore, it was not a lion, but a tiger.”

  Everyone looked at the little man named Chiun blankly.

  “But it’s a stray tabby cat,” the director said.

  Chiun said, “It may have been born a tabby, but it died a tiger.”

  No one had much to add to that, so the director signaled for the second tape.

  Because it was night, the surveillance video cameras recorded night-vision images that played back a grainy greenish black.

  It was clear enough to show vividly the sight of what appeared to be Congressman Gila Gingold chasing Secret Service agents across the White House lawn and later attacking the President himself. On all fours.

  Once the President hit the lawn, the figures blended together.

  “I count two extra people,” the director of the Secret Service said, brow furrowing.

  “Shadows,” said Harold Smith, looking to Remo and Chiun.

  “No. Run that over.”

  “Forget it,” the President cut in. “Have that tape destroyed. It’s not exactly anyone’s finest hour.”

  After that, there was an awkward silence.

  The director offered, “Congressman Gingold is under observation. Maybe we’ll have some kind of explanation in a few days.”

  Again Special Agent Eastwood asked his companion, “What do you think?”

  “That was no man,” intoned Chiun. “That was a gravel worm.”

  “What’s a gravel worm?”

  “The Egyptians of old called them gravel worms because when their eggs hatched, they resembled gravel come to life as they crawled up from the gravel beds of the Nile.”

  “I still don’t know what a gravel worm is,” said Remo.

  “In some lands they are called alligators. In others, the word is crocodile.”

  Jack Murtha snapped his fingers. “I knew Gingold reminded me of something. He reminded me of an alligator!” He ran over and reran a portion of the tape. “Look, see the way he came splashing out of the fountain? That’s how an alligator runs.”

  “You mean he was trying to drag me into the fountain with his teeth?” the President demanded.

  “That’s how they kill prey. By dragging them into the water and holding them under till they drown.”

  The President of the United States shuddered visibly and uncontrollably.

  “What would make Congressman Gila Gingold think he was a alligator?” asked retired Special Agent Smith.

  “The same evil that convinced a simple tabby cat that it was a tiger,” said Chiun.

  “I would like to examine that cat,” said Smith.

  The cat was brought over from the FBI testing lab in a carrier cage. It had already begun to stiffen.

  “I can’t get over how much that looks like Socks,” the President said glumly.

  “Did I mention we found evidence that the cat was dyed to match Socks’s markings?” the director asked casually.

  “No, you did not,” the President said tightly.

  “Actually it was the FBI forensics lab that uncovered it,” the director added hastily. “We have so much stuff coming in here, we’re just shipping it right on over to the Fantasy Factory for analysis.”

  “Fantasy Factory?” asked the President.

  “Secret Service Intelligence Division. They’re the best, Mr. President. They spitball every conceivable scenario. If sense can be made of all these events, they’ll do it.”

  Special Agent Smith had withdrawn the dead cat from the carrier cage and was going through its fur with his fingers. Near the top of the head where the fur was black, he paused, separating the stiffening hairs.

  “Find something, Smith?” asked the President.

  “A scar. Perfectly circular.”

  Everyone gathered around to see. It was dime-sized patch of whitish scar tissue.

  “Looks surgical,” muttered Remo.

  “The FBI missed this,” said Smith.

  “Shame on them,” the director said smugly.

  Smith looked up. “Where is the cat’s collar?”

  “FBI must still have it.”

  “It should be examined.”

  “I’m sure that’s being done right now,” the director said, rocking on his heels. So far, this was going smoothly. The FBI was catching most of the heat.

  “And Gila Gingold’s hair should be examined for a surgical mark such as this,” said Smith.

  “What?”

  “If such a mark is found, it will be incontrovertible evidence of a conspiracy to assassinate the President.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. We have no evidence of any such conspiracy. Not in Boston. Not in Washington. At least, not officially.”

  “What do you mean by not officially?” the President demanded.

  The director lost his composure. “I mean, sir, simply that there are Secret Service procedures we follow, and crying wolf isn’t part one of them. And I’m getting tired of this dried-up retirement case barging into my investigation, Dallas experience or not.”

  “Do not speak to me that way,” warned the tiny Asian Chiun.

  “I was referring to Smith.”

  “And do not speak to Smith that way,” said Chiun.

  The director towered over the little Asian. “Who made you cock of the walk?”

  “The Master before me.”

  Before the director could say anything further, the President noticed the TV set. It had been left on and was tuned into a broadcast channel. Congressman Gila Gingold’s brick red face filled the screen. There was a chyron in one corner of the screen. It said Live.

  “What’s he doing on the air live?” the President blurted.

  “What’s he doing out of St. Elizabeth’s?” the director sputtered.

  An agent turned up the sound.

  “...demand that the White House officially apologize for floating the obviously untrue story of my institutionalization. A story put out in the obvious and blatant attempt to discredit me.”

  The camera zoomed past Gila Gingold to a man sprawled on a hospital bed, sleeping on his stomach.

  “Which is which?” asked the President.

  “The one on his stomach is the gravel worm,” said Chiun. “He thinks he is sunning himself.”

  The camera returned to Gila Gingold’s glowering face, and Pepsie Dobbins’s disembodied voice asked, “Congressman, why do you suppose the White House has led the general public to believe you attacked the President tonight?”

  “Obviously my successful efforts to lead the charge against their universal health-care program in Congress is the chief motivation here.”

  “And who specifically?”

  “I won’t name names–except to point out that everyone knows the First Lady is point man on health care.”

  “Thank you, Congressman Gingold.”

  Pepsie Dobbins turned to the camera and all but blocked the view of Congressman Gila Gingold.

  “Tonight all Washington wonders if the fight over universal health care has reached a new low in political brawling or broken out into open warfare.”

  An off-screen anchor’s voiced said, “Pepsie, first of all welcome back to ANC News.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Secondly, what can you add to the Boston angle to this story?”

  “This is no Boston angle,” the Secret Service director sputtered.

  Then Pepsie Dobbins spoke the words that made the room spin around the Secret Service director’s head.

  “I have this from a source within the Secret Service itself. The rifle used in the attempt on the President’s life tonight was a Mannlicher-Carcano 6.5-caliber military rifle, serial number C2766. This is the same rifle used to assassinate President Kennedy in Dallas, Texas, more than thirty years ago.”

  “Pepsie, this is stunning. What does it mean?”

  “It means,” said Pepsie Dobbins, her tomcat eyes bright, “that I may be the next Steinway. Or Steinward. You know.”

  “I mean,” the anchor persisted, “what does this mean to the story?”

  “That there is an open conspiracy to kill the President and it has roots that go back eight administrations.”

  In the White House Secret Service command post, all heads turned toward the director, and all eyes locked with his. They were not happy eyes. The director sympathized. He imagined his own eyes were looking extremely unhappy right about now.

  An incoming fax announced itself with a strident beeping, and the director’s heart all but stopped as Smith casually reached over to claim it.

  “According to this,” he announced, “the FBI has a positive fingerprint match for the man who tried to shoot the President.”

  Everyone stopped breathing for a moment.

  “The prints are those of Lee Harvey Oswald.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Incredible,” said Harold W. Smith as Remo handed another still-warm fax to him.

  It was 3:00 a.m. in the Secret Service command post of the White House. For over four hours Smith had been sifting through the raw data from Boston, from St. Elizabeth’s and other focal points of the investigation.

  “Have you figured it out?” asked the President of the United States.

  “Not by any means,” admitted Smith.

  Remo and Chiun lounged by the door. Whenever someone knocked, they told them to go away.

  “This is assistant detail chief Murtha,” a nervous voice asked. “The director wants to know if you’re finished with the room yet.”

  “It is not over till the First Lady sings,” said Chiun.