The two men looked at the choking FBI assistant director.
The tag had gone down sideways, so his breathing was not impeded. The outline of the ID was clearly visible in the stretched skin of his neck. He coughed like a cat with a fur ball even as he jammed his fingers into his own desperately open mouth.
The man was staggering off when the Colonel and the Secret Service agent turned back to Remo. "An enemy force of unknown origin has taken the White House," the Secret Service man said without hesitation. "Our side suffered heavy casualties. Big Creep and Shrieker are inside."
Remo assumed these were the new code names for the President and First Lady. "Are they alive?"
"So far," the colonel answered. "The terrorists are holed up mostly on the ground level. The First Family is up in their living quarters. We're still in contact with the agents who are with them."
"Why don't you come up from below?" Remo asked, knowing that the offices of the White House extended well below street level.
"They seem to know the layout even better than we do," the Secret Service agent explained angrily. "All routes of ingress have been blocked. You heard about the bombing in Manhattan the other day?"
Remo frowned. "What's that got to do with this?"
"The head terrorist mentioned it to the FBI negotiator. 'Remember the Regency' or something like that."
Remo's frown deepened. "I've been in Oz the last few days," he said. "What's that mean?"
"It's the name of the office building they blew up," the agent explained. "When he said that, we got the preliminary report of the FBI investigation in New York faxed here on the double. They used plastic explosives to destroy an entire floor of that building."
"Which means the White House could already be set to go up like a Roman candle," the Marine colonel finished.
"Stalemate," the Secret Service agent grudgingly admitted. Rainwater dripped down the sour lines of his face.
E Street was crawling with government agents. Remo looked across the road to the South Executive Place fence of the White House. He could see the many missing bars in the wrought iron through which the terrorists had slipped.
And as the reality of this violation sank in, a cold fury welled up from the pit of Remo Williams's stomach.
The White House taken captive by terrorists. The single most aggressive assault ever on all that was symbolically American.
Remo might not approve of the current President or his treatment of Smith but-like the present occupant or not-the White House was the seat of world democracy. A symbol of hope for oppressed people around the world. And if Remo had anything to say about it, it would remain such.
"How many men?" he asked, voice coldly uninflected.
"Unknown at present," the Marine colonel offered. "At least two hundred."
Remo looked at the Secret Service man. His eyes were dead. "Get on the phone with the D.C. morgue," he instructed. "Order up two hundred body bags."
And with that, he was gone.
They saw him blend into the crowd of agents. But even as their eyes tried to track the stranger, he melted from their vision. He was like a ghost who had faded into the shadows.
"Who the hell was that?" the Secret Service agent asked once Remo was gone.
"I don't know," the Marine colonel admitted, his eyes flint. The chill that ran down his spine had nothing to do with the rain. "But I think you better make that call."
Chapter 23
Bruce Marmelstein was on his way back to Taurus from his day's tanning appointment when the call came through.
"Put on the news, Bruce." Hank Bindle's voice was anxious on the limo's speakerphone. Marmelstein put down his drink and reached for the control panel. "News?" he complained. "That's like Entertainment Tonight for losers. What do I want to see that for?"
"Just do it," Bindle pressed.
Marmelstein rolled his eyes even as the small color monitor winked on. "Okay, where do I find it?" he sighed.
"Right now, anywhere will do," Bindle said. "It's on every damn channel."
Marmelstein frowned as he watched the action on-screen.
"I don't know, Hank," he said, sipping his scotch and soda. "I usually don't question you in creative matters, but remember I just optioned Petticoat Junction and we've got the Wonder Twins with Nick Cage and Uma Thurman opening this fall. Do you really think we should give Yogi Bear the big-screen treatment?"
"Not Fox!" Bindle snapped. "One of the Big Three!"
Marmelstein reluctantly switched from the cartoon to the local CBS affiliate.
Immediately, images of a familiar residence appeared on the screen. Even Bruce Marmelstein recognized the White House. He had been there several times in the past few years. In fact, he and his partner had been on the past two inaugural committees. The building was bathed in darkness.
"Did they forget to pay the electric bill?" Marmelstein asked.
"The terrorists wanted it that way," Bindle supplied.
"Oh." Marmelstein nodded. He took another sip of scotch.
"The terrorists who took over the White House," Hank Bindle elaborated.
"I don't get this, Hank," Bruce Marmelstein finally admitted. "Frankly, I like your Yogi Bear idea better. I mean, how do you option the news?"
"We don't have to option it. We already own it."
"We do?" Marmelstein said. He didn't remember buying the rights. "Well if it's ours already, how about Huntley-Brinkley: the Early Years? I'm thinking DiCaprio and Van Der Beek. We could glue fake Brinkley ears on Leo-"
"The White House has been taken over by a group of armed terrorists, Bruce!" Bindle yelled. "They blew through the fence and swarmed the grounds. The President and his family are trapped upstairs. Doesn't that scenario sound just a little familiar to you?"
It didn't really click for Bruce Marmelstein until his Taurus cochair mentioned the First Family were hostages. In one horror-filled instant, he realized what was going on.
"Die Down IV!" Marmelstein gagged. Mind reeling, he focused his attention back on the TV screen.
"It's awful!" Bindle cried. "The head terrorist is a Brit and everything. Just like in our blockbuster."
Marmelstein clutched his gut. "I'm going to be sick."
"It gets worse. The news people intercepted a call he made with the FBI. Bruce, he mentioned New York,"
Scotch came out Marmelstein's nose. "The Regency?" he gasped, wiping the brown dribble off his chin. His nostrils burned.
"I couldn't believe it," Bindle moaned. "That's copyright infringement!" Marmelstein sputtered. "We'll sue! I'm calling the lawyers!"
"It's worse than that," Bindle insisted. He began to cry. "I think we could even go to prison, Bruce. And that's a bad thing. Not like in Stir Crazy at all. It's full of black people. And not funny ones like Richard Pryor. Angry ones, Bruce. They could hit you in the face and hurt you. Maybe even break a tooth."
"But we only hired out for New York," Marmelstein insisted. "We didn't pay for this. We pulled the plug on it. If he's doing this, he's doing it on his own."
"It doesn't matter," Bindle sobbed. "It's going on whether we paid for it or not."
"Free?" Marmelstein asked, hoping he'd pronounced the alien word correctly.
"You're the money guy. Did you sign the check?"
"I don't know," Marmelstein whined. "I just use the autopen-I don't pay attention to what it's doing. But it doesn't matter. We nixed the White House idea. It was too high profile. New York was good enough. It tied in with the movie without insulting everyone's... What's that stuff called? That country-loving stuff we looked up?"
"Patriotism?"
"Yeah, that. New York is what we agreed to."
"He must have thought we needed an extra push."
Marmelstein was getting angry. "What we needed was for the goddamn studio to blow up like we paid for and we didn't get that." He looked once more at the action on the TV, then closed his eyes.