"If," said the President, dropping heavily into the chair behind the desk where so many Presidents before him had toiled, "you ever become President yourself."
"Don't think it couldn't happen," the First Lady flared.
"Not for a moment," said the President, smiling.
The First Lady relaxed slightly.
"I want you to do something important for me," the President said.
"What?"
The President lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Fetch me a couple of things."
The First Lady approached the executive desk and put one ear to the President's mouth.
When the President explained his needs, the First Lady frowned, then blurted, "What do you need those for?"
"Because," said the President, "I'm going jogging."
"Are you insane?" the First Lady shrieked.
"No, just scared out of my skin," admitted the President of the United States in no uncertain terms.
Chapter 14
At a pay phone on Virginia Avenue, Remo Williams phoned Harold W. Smith at Folcroft Sanitarium.
"Smitty. Did you hear? The President's still alive."
"Yes. It is a great relief."
"Well, don't relax yet. Something weird's going on down here."
"What is it? Where are you, Remo?"
"D.C. I just got back from the White House."
"You should be protecting the President."
"Scratch that plan. I just pulled his fat out of the fire in front of his personal Secret Service guards. I've been made."
"Pulled his fat out of the fire? What do you mean?"
"Just as I was pulling up, he was stepping off Marine One. No sooner does he do that than the Secret Service starts to draw down on him."
Horror made Smith's voice wobble. "His own agents?"
"No, not the guys in the chopper. The ones patrolling the White House grounds. It looked like they were going to slaughter one another until I stepped in and grabbed the cat."
"What cat?"
"The First Cat. What's his name? Puss? Boots?"
"Socks," said Smith.
"Except it wasn't Socks, because Socks showed up later."
"Why would the Secret Service be shooting at a stray cat?"
"I don't think it was a stray. It was a dead ringer for the real Socks."
"How can you be sure?"
"If you ever looked Socks in the puss, you'd be sure. That is one ugly kitty cat."
Smith made a strange noise, and when he got his throat cleared he asked, "Remo, please begin at the beginning."
"Let me finish up my story before I go back to square one. I moved in and grabbed the cat. Let me tell you, it was strong. Or thought it was. The agents swore it was rabid. But I don't think it was. It was just an upset cat. Once I defused the situation, everything seemed to get back to normal. I flashed my Secret Service ID and, while the pieces were being picked up, I got out of there."
Smith said nothing for a long time.
"The Secret Service is extremely well trained," he mused.
"Not these guys. They were having conniption fits over a stray cat."
"It is entirely too coincidental that a cat exactly resembling Socks should appear on the White House grounds creating such a disturbance."
"I hate it when you're right," Remo said glumly.
"Remo, Chiun should be arriving at Washington National any minute now. Rendezvous with him, then call me."
"What are you going to do in the meantime?" wondered Remo.
"Dedicate my computers to the problem. Something is going on, and there is insufficient information to make out what."
"While you're at it," said Remo, "don't forget to keep looking for my parents." He was about to hang up when an unexpected sight came trotting around the corner on fourteen legs.
It was the President of the United States, jogging amid a loose circle of very white-faced Secret Service agents. Everyone was wearing running shorts and sweats.
Except the President. He was wearing a T-shirt too thin to protect him from the late-December chill, mild as it was. And a green baseball cap.
Remo read the legend on the cap and, as the President approached, his pasty legs jiggling like Jell-O with each step, he got a glimpse of the front of the T-shirt.
Hastily he turned his face away from the sweeping sunglass lenses of the Secret Service and said, "Smitty, you won't believe this, but the President just jogged by."
"After two assassination attempts?"
"Well, I think the President is trying to reach out to you."
"Why do you say that?" asked Smith.
"The hot line to the White House still down?"
"Yes. I've been unable to locate the break in the line."
"If you have a TV at hand, turn it on. The news guys up the block look excited enough to be broadcasting this live. They've set up a roadblock to ask the President the usual dippy questions."
"One moment, Remo."
AT HIS DESK at Folcroft, Harold W. Smith tapped a sequence on his computer keyboard. Instantly the amber glow of his computer screen went black as it shifted to receiving broadcast-quality TV signals.
Sure enough, the networks were broadcasting live footage of the Presidential jog.
"This is Fred Flowers," a reporter was saying, "coming to you live where the President of the United States, not two hours after an attempt on his life and a mysterious altercation among the Secret Service agents on the South Lawn, is calmly jogging down Constitution Avenue."
The camera zoomed in on the President's puffy face. It looked like a sponge in water. His eyes were squeezed almost shut. He did not look calm. Neither did his agents, who looked, if anything, like men marching through an unmarked minefield.
The long onyx Presidential Lincoln Continental limousine followed at an uneasy crawl.
As the President trotted up to the waiting press ambush, questions were called out.
In response, the President turned his head and gave a forced smile. To the consternation of his bodyguards, he suddenly put on speed, pulling ahead of them.
Then he turned his jogging body toward the camera and waved broadly.
Harold W. Smith read his last name on the President's thin T-shirt front and again stitched in white lettering on the front of the green baseball cap.
Smith leaned down to read the legend better, but he could not. The screen was too small.
He clapped the phone receiver to his face and asked, "Remo, what is that written on the President?"
"T-shirt or cap?" asked Remo.
"Both."
"The cap says Eat Granny Smith Apples, and the T-shirt says Smith College."
"Smith College is a women's college," Smith said tartly.
"And from the way he's eyeing that Burger Triumph hungrily," Remo said, "I don't think he's that big a fan of Granny Smith apples, either."
"He is trying to contact me," said Smith.
"Is that a good idea? Last time you talked to him, he was threatening to shut down the organization."
"I have no choice," Smith said instantly. "This is an unmistakable signal that the President wishes to meet with me."
"How are you going to arrange that?"
"I am doing it right now," said Harold Smith.
"How?"
"By electronic mail," explained Smith.
"I don't hear any clicking of keys."
"My new keyboard is keyless," reminded Smith.
"Oh, right," said Remo, watching the President jog on past. The more Remo had seen him jog on TV, the more pounds the Chief Executive seemed to gain. A moment later Remo saw the explanation. A Secret Service agent came jogging out of the Burger Triumph carrying a steaming cardboard container of jumbo fries. He handed it off to the President, who munched hungrily as he ran.
"I have just suggested that the President see a movie," Smith was saying.
"Tell him to skip the popcorn," grunted Remo.
"Excuse me."
"Never mind. Any particular movie?"
"Yes. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. "