"I understand my job," said the federal marshal as he left the room. "That's all they pay me to understand."
The President of the United States was not happy. The Air Force, Coast Guard, and National Guard had called off their search. There was no sign of the lost shuttle Yuri Gagarin within the search radius, which had been expanded another thirty miles in all directions. The gist of the reports from the three military branches was that the Gagarin was unfindable.
"Unfindable," the President grumbled. "They gave up. That's what it is. They finked out on us."
"There's another possibility, Mr. President," interjected the Secretary of Defense, who was ultimately responsible for the actions of America's military machine.
"What's that?" the President asked. He was seated at his desk in the Oval Office.
"The shuttle might have been taking some sort of evasive action when it went off our radarscopes. It could have flown out to sea, close to the deck, as they say in the Navy, and off to Europe and Russia."
"Then why are the Soviets still screaming for their shuttle through diplomatic channels?"
"Conceivably, the shuttle might not have made it home."
"And what about the man who was seen climbing aboard the thing at Kennedy. Any word on him?"
"The latest intelligence reports are sketchy, Mr. President. According to the CIA, the FBI has identified an abandoned pickup truck with Missouri license plates left at the airport. It's registered to a farmer who reported it stolen several days ago. It's believed that the pickup was stolen by a federal fugitive named Earl Armalide, who is wanted for income-tax evasion, flight to avoid arrest, and the murders of several LEOs."
"Lions?"
"Law-enforcement officers," said the Secretary. "You may have seen this man's siege on the networks."
"The survivalist with the hilltop fortress? That's the man who escaped into a Russian shuttle?"
"I know it sounds unlikely, but that's what our friends over at the CIA think the FBI has uncovered."
"Think? Why not ask the FBI directly? Don't they return CIA calls?"
"Well, Mr. President, there's such a thing as interagency rivalry. The CIA feels if they ask the FBI for a favor now, the FBI may want it returned at an inconvenient time. You know."
"I know that we're all supposed to be on the same team. That's what I know," the President said furiously. He grabbed the phone and asked the operator to get the director of the FBI.
"What else do we know?" the President asked the Secretary of Defense while he waited.
"We have a problem with the specimens removed from the airport runway. The FORTEC people have been unable to analyze them. It seems that there have been several injunctions filed against them."
"Injunctions?" The President's face shook with controlled fury. He could not believe what he was hearing. "Well, yes. It seems the CDC, DARPA, and a few others are claiming that the recovery and analysis duties on those specimens were their individual provinces."
"If I could, I'd fire the whole bunch of them!" shouted the President. Into the phone he said, "What? No, not you, Mr. Director. I was talking to the Secretary of Defense. Wait." The President put the FBI director on hold and turned to the other man. "Quash those suits. I don't care what you have to do. Divide the specimens among everyone. Just get them analyzed. We have a major incursion by a Soviet space vehicle and no one is functioning. This is the United States government, not Romper Room!"
"Yes, Mr. President," said the Secretary of Defense sheepishly as he left the Oval Office.
The President was in no mood for small talk so he asked his question of the FBI director without preamble. "What can you tell me about the man who was seen climbing aboard the Soviet shuttle at Kennedy?"
"Mr. President, we think he was Earl Armalide, a self-avowed survivalist and federal fugitive. We theorize that the Soviet spacecraft was hijacked by an accomplice of Armalide's and that the two men have escaped to an unknown third country, but we admit the evidence is circumstantial."
"The idea is beyond the absurd-wouldn't you also say that as well?" demanded the President.
"Well, it would seem unlikely. Armalide did not become a wanted criminal until days before the Soviet shuttle was launched. Not enough lead time to plan an operation this major. And the Bureau doesn't consider it likely that the Soviets themselves would land the shuttle at Kennedy to rendezvous with Armalide."
"It's a long way to go to evade income tax," the President agreed dryly.
"But the Air Force personnel on the runway have identified photos of the man, so we are ninety percent certain that Armalide did board the Gagarin prior to its taking off."
"I find it difficult to swallow. Is there anything else?"
"Yes, we have a recent report that Armalide was sighted at a fast-food restaurant near Rye, New York." There was silence on the line.
"Mr. President. Are you still there?"
The President's voice, when he spoke, was remote and metallic. "Isn't Rye within the supposed crash radius of the shuttle?"
"Yes, it is. Which is why we lend credence to the report. But our agents have turned up no trace of the man."
"Excuse me," said the President. "I have another call to make. An important one."
The President slipped out of the Oval Office, informing his staff that he was going to take a short nap. He knew one of them would leak it to the press, but that was unimportant. If the world only knew what he was really doing when he took his supposed naps ... Well ... The President smiled inwardly. They might impeach him. Then again, they might repeal the Twenty-second Amendment and give him another term of office.
The President sat on the edge of his bed and opened his locked nightstand drawer. He removed a telephone. It was a standard AT cept it was hot-coal red and had no dial or push buttons. The President lifted the handset to his ear and waited.
The voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith came on the line. "Yes, Mr. President?"
"We're at a dead end with this Gagarin incident. But I have some information for you. The FBI informs me that the man who was seen boarding the craft when it was on the ground was a known fugitive named Earl Armalide. He was seen in your area only two days ago. I don't know what any of it means, but I can't help but recall that problem we had with the Russians last year."
"In the past, Mr. President," Smith said formally.
"We lost our enforcement arm during that mess. Just because we paid with our dearest blood doesn't mean that the Soviets aren't out to even the score."
"I am certain I can assure you that the Gagarin incident is not a part of any such senario."
"The military think the shuttle has gone back to Russia. What do you think?"
"I cannot speculate on that, sir. But my special person is already looking into this."
"Good. I have enough meatballs working for me on this end. I need someone I can rely on. You're the man, Smith."
"Thank you, Mr. President. I appreciate your saying that."
"Then why do you sound like I just broke the news that you have terminal cancer?"
"Er, yes, Mr. President," said Smith awkwardly. "I'll get back to you when I have something concrete."
At Folcroft, Dr. Harold W. Smith hung up the phone. Although alone, he tightened his Dartmouth tie selfconsciously. He liked the current President. But the nature of Smith's job required that no personal bond be formed with the President. Smith could not afford a chief executive who thought that he could call on CURE to solve every little problem that came along. The unwritten CURE charter stipulated that the President could suggest missions, but not order them. A President had only eight years in office, tops. But Harold Smith was in his job for life.
He sat back and waited for Chiun to report in. Remo Williams whistled as he walked through the Seattle-Tacoma Airport. He was in a good mood. True, he had not exactly eradicated the problem of the homeless in America, but it wasn't his fault that he couldn't find any. But he could take pleasure in solving the bizarre plight of Dexter Barn, now sleeping peacefully through the first leg of his trip to a happier tomorrow. It had been a neat solution to a difficult matter and Remo was especially proud that he hadn't had to kill anyone. He was retired from killing. Killing was in the past. In a few months Remo would ship out for Korea one last time and settle down with his bride-to-be, Mah-Li, and raise a family. Maybe he would teach his children Sinanju. But he would not teach them to kill. No, he would teach them just enough Sinanju so they could become famous acrobats or entertainers. Yes, that was it. Maybe when they grew up he would start a family circus. Remo used to dream of running away and joining a circus when he was a boy. All boys, he supposed, did. Remo used to dream of walking the high wire without a net.