“Look,” Pepsie said, clapping a hand over her free ear, “if it’s the same rifle, this could be big. We’ve got to go on the air with it.”

  “I’m going on the air with nothing! You get your ass back to Washington, and we’ll sort it out later. In the meantime, I have an unscheduled appointment in the network president’s woodshed. And you have one in mine.”

  The phone went click in Pepsie’s ear.

  “Take me to the airport,” Pepsie told the cabbie dispiritedly. “And don’t be in such a rush.”

  On the way out, the cabbie was saying, “I don’t suppose I could talk you into letting me accompany you to D.C.? I got a lot to offer and I’m sick of contending with these maniac Boston drivers...”

  Chapter Ten

  The airline reservations agent was unapologetic.

  “We have no adjoining seats in coach and none in first class at all.”

  “But I’m Pepsie Dobbins. Bump someone.”

  The agent remained unmoved. “The flight has boarded. Would you prefer to wait for the next flight?”

  “I’d love to,” Pepsie muttered. “But I have to be in Washington.”

  “Do you have a preference–12-A or 31-E?”

  “Just give them both to me,” Pepsie said. “Since when does the ANC News Washington correspondents get so little respect?” she fumed.

  “Since she screwed up royally,” suggested the cabbie.

  “You watch your mouth. You’re along for the ride only as long as you pull your own weight.”

  “Happy to oblige,” said the cabbie, accepting his boarding pass from Pepsie.

  “What about me?” asked the ANC News cameraman, who stood a little off to one side, his hands dangling uncomfortably as if he didn’t know what to do with them when not packing around the chief tool of his trade.

  “Walk,” said Pepsie. “And next time hold on to your camera.”

  · · ·

  On board, Pepsie found a little mummy of an Asian man sitting in 12-A. A lavender kimono covered his pipe-stem body. He was as bald as an egg except for some snowy cloud puffs over each ear. A wisp of smoke too vaporous to be called a true beard hung off his wrinkled chin. He stared out the window with narrow eyes that were hazel in the reflected glass.

  Pepsie bent over and asked, “Would you mind trading seats with my friend?”

  “Yes, I would mind,” said the old Asian in a squeaky voice. He did not look away from the window.

  “But I need to sit with my friend.”

  “Then sit on his lap. Just do not bother me.”

  “But I’m Pepsie Dobbins.”

  “And I am the Master of Sinanju.”

  Pepsie blinked. “I guess he won’t budge,” she told the cabbie.

  “You are very astute,” said the Master of Sinanju. “For a mere female.”

  Reluctantly Pepsie took her seat next to the little wisp of a man, and the cabbie went to the back of the plane. Within a few minutes the jet was airborne.

  After the Please Fasten Seat Belts light was doused, Pepsie turned to the old Asian and complained, “It wouldn’t have hurt you to be nice to me.”

  “I do not see you being nice to me.”

  “But I’m an important network correspondent.”

  The face of the old Asian gathered its wrinkles together like parchment taking on water. “Pah! I am even more important than you.”

  “How so?”

  “I am the resolute guardian of the throne of America.”

  “That’s nice,” said Pepsie in a thin voice, instantly dismissing the old man as senile.

  The old Asian lapsed into silence.

  “Of course,” the old man added after a long pause, “it is a state secret.”

  Not looking up from her copy of People, Pepsie murmured, “What is?”

  “The fact that I serve the true ruler of America in a secret capacity. Do not tell anyone.”

  “I won’t.”

  “It is a thankless task.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “Especially thankless since I am reduced to protecting the puppet President and not Emperor Smith.”

  Pepsie shook off her disinterest. “Puppet President?”

  “He is a sham. Though few know it.”

  “I’m sure,” Pepsie said vaguely.

  “Your entire government is a sham. A sham and a farce.”

  “But never dull.”

  “But this is what an assassin is reduced to in these odious times.”

  “Excuse me. Did you say ‘assassin’?”

  The old Asian placed a thin finger like a yellowed mummy bone to his papery lips. “Secret assassin.”

  “You’re an assassin?”

  “Secret.”

  “This is very interesting,” said Pepsie, surreptitiously reaching into her purse and squeezing the Record button on her minicassette recorder.

  “Of course, I cannot speak about it. Tongues would wag–”

  “They always do. But just between you and I, you didn’t have anything to do with what happened here today?”

  “The disgrace?”

  “Yeah. The disgrace.”

  “It was a base act. To use a boom stick and strike down a member of the palace guard and not the proper target.”

  “You think it’s bad they got the wrong guy?”

  “It is a disgrace. A proper assassin dispatches his target and no other. And he does this without resorting to smoke and thunder.”

  “So if it were you, the President would have been killed?”

  “If it were I,” the old man said, “the puppet would not only have expired, but have expired in a way that no one would ever suspect fool play.”

  “You mean foul play.”

  “A chicken would be insulted by what happened this day.”

  “Really?”

  “Truly.” The old man lapsed into another long silence. His quick hazel eyes went continually to the gleaming aluminum wing just below the window.

  “We are past the point of danger,” he said after a while.

  “You mean the country?”

  “No. I mean this conveyance. The wing has not fallen off. Typically this only happens in the first ten minutes. If it has not fallen off now, it is unlikely to do so until we are again on the ground. By then, it does not matter if the wing falls off or not.”

  “Back to the puppet President,” Pepsie said quickly. “If he’s a puppet, who pulls his strings?”

  “Emperor Smith. It is he who truly rules this land and who, for stubborn reasons I cannot understand, allows the fallacy of democracy to lurch on unchecked.”

  “You mean, like voting?”

  “Another sham.”

  “I’ve never voted.”

  “You show uncommon wisdom.”

  “Do you think Smith has anything to do with the attempts on the President’s life?”

  “No. It is Smith who has ordered me to Washington to protect the puppet from those who covet his life. I do not understand this. Smith has ignored all my entreaties to snuff the puppet and set him on the Eagle Throne.”

  “You mean the Oval Office?”

  “I mean what I mean. It matters not where the emperor places his throne, only that he sits upon it with firmness.”

  “You want the President dead?”

  “It will bring stability to this land of mass confusion. Every four years it is the same circus. Many vie for the puppet throne, and each time the prettiest face and the loudest voice triumphs. Seldom has a true ruler won the contest.”

  “Name one who did.”

  “Milhous the Trusted. He was a true leader. Cold. Ruthless. Calculating. The years when he was puppet were good ones, relatively.”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “I did not say,” the old man sniffed. “But I am called Chiun. Remember the name well. Just do not repeat it to anyone.”

  “My lips are sealed,” Pepsie said, surreptitiously shutting off the tape recorder.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Washington press corps had already staked out Andrews Air Base when Air Force One touched down on barking tires.

  Secret Service Special Agent Vince Capezzi spotted them as the lumbering 747 swung off the runway, trundling toward the waiting black-and-olive-green helicopter that, like others designated for the Chief Executive’s official use, was called Marine One whenever the President himself stepped aboard.

  “We got press in large numbers,” he barked into his hand mike. “Inform the pilot to park her in the hangar. We’ll take the Man off inside.”

  “Roger.”

  Turbines spooling down, the Presidential plane veered toward a waiting hangar. Seeing the course change, the Washington press corps surged toward the hangar.

  “Wonderful. They’re going to try to beat us to the hangar.”

  “I’d better put this to the President,” said Capezzi, lifting himself out of his seat in the Secret Service cubicle.

  He moved through the narrow blue corridors and encountered the chief of staff.

  “We have press,” Capezzi said grimly.

  “Good.”

  “Good? We’ve got to get the Man to Crown as fast as possible.”

  “It’s the White House. Call it the White House when you talk to me. All these dipshit code names drive me crazy.”

  “Until we’ve ascertained that there is no conspiracy, the President belongs in a secure place.”

  “He has a health-care plan to push. He’s pretty steamed you pulled him out of Boston.”

  “I didn’t notice your vociferous objection.”

  The chief of staff shrugged. “You know how it goes.”

  “Yeah, I know how it goes. Whenever the President has to change his schedule, the Service is trotted out as scapegoat. But this time the threat was real.”

  “Look, I’m going to recommend the President speak briefly to the press.”

  “It’s a risk.”

  “It would have to be a pretty big conspiracy to have agents in Boston and Washington,” the chief of staff pointed out.

  “It’s not impossible. And I object to any Presidential appearance in the strongest possible terms.”

  “He’s still the President. He makes these decisions. But I’ll relay to him your concerns.”

  “Like hell you will. I’m going in there with you. I won’t lose this President to staff politics.”

  “Fine,” the chief of staff said stiffly. “We’ll both go see the President.”

  “Don’t bother,” the hoarse voice of the President of the United States said. “I heard everything.”

  The President appeared behind them, looking grim.

  The chief of staff spoke up quickly. “Mr. President, now would be an excellent time to assure the nation that you are alive and in control of the reins of power.”

  “You mean word hasn’t gotten out yet?” Capezzi said.

  The chief of staff smiled tightly. “We thought it would endanger the President’s security if word were released prematurely.”

  Buttoning a fresh jacket and smoothing his replacement tie, the President said, “I’ll address the press when I step off the plane. Have the air stairs rolled into place and make the usual security arrangements.”

  “Damn,” Capezzi said, turning on his heel to do his thankless duty.

  Air Force One was braked short of the hangar. The Washington press corps uncertainly stopped its mass stampede and looked indecisive.

  There was a runway staircase mounted on a waiting truck and it started up, moving into position. Once the bumpers touched the hull on either side of the main exit door, the door was thrown open and Secret Service agents, clutching MAC-11s, rattled down the red-carpeted steps and began going among the press contingent, demanding to see plastic press IDs and frisking unfamiliar reporters with metal-detecting wands.

  “Okay,” one barked into his wrist mike. “All clear.”

  “Roger. We’re moving him down from Angel One now.”

  The President emerged, flanked by two agents whose immobile faces rotated back and forth with metronomic regularity.

  The President lifted one hand, and gasps floated up from the assembled press.

  Walking steadily, the President descended to the bottom of the steps and stopped before a portable podium that had been hastily set in place.

  “I would like to make a statement,” he began in a somber voice.

  “Who are you?” a reporter blurted.

  “Looks like the President,” a second reporter said.

  “But he’s supposed to be dead,” a third said.

  The President ignored the outburst and pressed on. “As you all know, earlier today there was an incident where a shot was fired at the Presidential limousine.”

  “Mr. President,” a reporter asked, waving. “A question, please.”

  The President ignored him. He opened his mouth to continue his statement.

  “Mr. President, why aren’t you dead?” the reporter interrupted.

  The President looked up to see who had spoken. It was a former White House correspondent famous for his rude questions and bad hairpieces. He was wearing a serious expression despite the utter ridiculousness of his shouted question.

  “You are the President of the United States, aren’t you?” he added pointedly. “I mean, you’re not a double or ringer brought in to calm the nation?”

  “You know better than that,” the President snapped, dispensing with his address.

  “But, sir, with all due respect, how do we know you are indeed the President?”

  “Because I just stepped off Air Force One wearing the President’s well-known face,” the President said, swallowing a bitter “you moron.”

  “I mean no disrespect, Mr. President, but the networks have reported your death. In fact, they have film. And it clearly shows your head being blown apart in living color.”

  “That was not me but a Secret Service agent who looks a little like me.”

  “In other words, a double?” the former White House correspondent said quickly.

  “A decoy,” the President snapped back. “Not a double.”

  “Can you prove that you’re the real double and not the dead double?”

  The President jerked an angry thumb over his shoulder at Air Force One. “His brave body is in the process of being unloaded,” he said tightly.

  “When will we be allowed to film the corpse?”

  “You wouldn’t be able to broadcast the film. Trust me.”

  “We telecast the film of you having your head blown apart,” a woman reporter corrected. “Semi-live.”

  “That wasn’t me,” the President snapped.

  “We haven’t fully established this yet,” another reporter pointed out in a tone more reasonable than the comment itself.

  “Look at me!” the President exploded. “I am the President of the United States. I am standing here in my own flesh speaking in my own voice. What is so darn hard to understand?”

  “Do you have a comment on Watergate–I mean Whitewash? Whatever it’s called now. You know, the scandal thing.”

  “I’d rather talk about health-care reform.”

  “Yeah, that’s him,” the former White House reporter with the silly hairpiece said.

  The President continued his statement. “I would just like to assure the American people that, despite this tragedy, the governing of this nation will go on uninterrupted. And I would also like to express my sincere condolences to the family of the slain agent. Thank you.”

  “You said there would be questions,” a reporter complained.

  “I’ve answered all the questions I intend to answer,” the President snapped.

  “Does that mean you don’t know the answers?”

  “Just one more,” the President said wearily.

  “Don’t do it, Mr. President,” the chief of staff whispered.

  Too late, the President pointed to the person who had spoken.

  “Will the Vice President take over your duties during the period of uncertainty over your identity?”

  “There’s is no uncertainty! I know who I am. And the American people know who I am!”

  “Is that a yes or a no?” asked one reporter.

  “That will be all. That will be all,” the chief of staff said, leading the fuming President away from the podium.

  “Hey, that will make a great instant-poll question,” another piped up. “Let’s let the American public decide.”

  An armored limousine slithered under the shadow of Air Force One and the President was pushed into it for the sixty-yard trip to Marine One, which was whining into life.

  Agents surrounded the President when he emerged, forming a moving diamond around him. He was jostled up the stairs like a convicted felon being hustled off to court.

  When Marine One lifted into the air, Secret Service Special Agent Mince Capezzi breathed a long, whistling sigh of relief.

  Once they reached Crown, the President would be safe.

  Chapter Twelve

  The network news vans and satellite trucks had been parked on the 1600 block of Pennsylvania Avenue before the White House for over an hour now, their microwave dishes pointed in all directions. Cameramen were perched on the van roofs, panning tripod-mounted video cameras back and forth.

  Roving news crews prowled the perimeter fence, blocked from entering by uniformed Secret Service agents.

  “We need a statement from the First Lady,” a reporter called over the fence.

  “The First Lady isn’t making any statements right now.”

  “She’s gotta make a statement. She’s the new Jackie Kennedy. She owes it to the nation to share her pain with ordinary citizens.”

  The Secret Service agent bit his lips. The word from the West Wing was to stonewall the press until an official statement was put out.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Frustrated, reporters descended on citizens and tourists who were gathering on Pennsylvania Avenue, weeping and stunned.

  “What does the Presidential loss mean to you personally?”

  “Where were you when you heard the news?”

  “I need a shot of someone crying,” a reporter called out. “If you’ve got tears in your eyes, raise your hand and I’ll put you on the BCN Evening News.”