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 11
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.