"You think you have an idea," said Smith.
"Yeah. But I can't talk about it now," Remo said.
After he had hung up, Remo told Chiun about the threat to the President.
"It is clear then what we must do," Chiun said.
"What's that?"
"We must tell this Viola Poombs that the President has rejected our advice so she can be sure to put it in her book. And then we must leave the country. No one can blame us for what will happen if we are not here and anyway he did not take our advice."
"Frankly, Chiun, I'd hoped we could find something better than just protecting our own reputations. Maybe like saving the President's life."
"If you insist upon trivializing everything, go ahead," Chiun said. "But important is important. The reputation of the House of Sinanju must be protected."
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"Well, it doesn't matter," Remo said. "I've got a plan."
"Is this as good as your plan once to go look for Smith in Pittsburgh because you knew he was in Cincinnati or some name like that?"
"Even better than that one," Remo said.
"I can't wait to hear this wonderful plan."
"I can't tell you about it," said Remo.
"Why not?" asked Chiun.
"You'll laugh."
"How quickly you become wise."
When he was given the money, Osgood Harley had been given specific instructions. He was to go to 200 different stores. He was to buy 200 Kodak Instamatics and 400 packages of flashcubes. One camera and two packs of cubes in each store. The orders had been precise and specific and he had been warned about deviating from them.
But 200 stores? Really.
He had bought fourteen of them at fourteen different stores and carefully stashed them in his fourth-floor walkup apartment on North K Street. But at the Whelan's drugstore on the corner near his apartment, he got to thinking. Who would know? Or care?
"I'd like a dozen Instamatic cameras," he told the clerk.
"I beg your pardon."
"A dozen. Twelve. I'd like twelve Instamatic cameras," Harley said. He was" five feet, eight inches tall with thin stringy hair that wasn't blond enough to look anything but dirty. The clerk noticed this as he looked up at the slack-jawed young man who was wearing four buttons.
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One protested racism, police brutality, poverty; while three endorsed American Indians, the Irish Republican Army, and reopening of trade markets with Cuba.
"Twelve cameras. That's very expensive. Thinking of starting your own store?" the middle-aged clerk said with what he presumed to be a smile.
"I've got the money, don't worry about it," Harley said, peeling a roll of fifties from the front pocket of his white-streaked bleached jeans.
"I'm sure of that, sir," said the clerk. "Which model would you like?"
"Farrah Fawcett-Majors."
"I beg your pardon."
"The model I'd like. Farrah Fawcett-Majors."
"Oh, yes. Sure. Wouldn't we all?"
"The cheapest one," Harley said.
"Yes sir." The clerk turned the key locking the register and went into the back stockroom and brought down from a middle shelf a dozen Instamatics. None of his business, but who would buy a dozen Instamatics at once? Maybe the young man was a schoolteacher, and this was for a new class in photography starting up somewhere.
The bill with tax came to almost two hundred dollars. Harley started counting out fifties.
"Oh, shit. Flashcubes. I need two dozen packs of flashcubes," he said.
"Got 'em right here." The clerk tossed them into a bag. "And how about film, sir?"
"Film?" asked Harley.
"Yes. For the cameras."
"No. I don't need no film."
The clerk shrugged. The man might be crazy
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but the fifty-dollar bills guaranteed enough sanity to do business with him.
He took five fifties from Harley and made change.
"Could I have your name, sir?"
"What for?"
"We often have specials here in the camera department. I can put you on our mailing list."
Harley thought a moment. "No. I don't want to leave my name."
"As you wish."
Harley walked out whistling with two large bags in his hands. The clerk watched him leave, noticing the slightly bowed legs, the run-down Hush Puppies, and practiced his powers of observation by remembering the four political buttons Osgood Harley wore on his short-sleeved plaid shirt.
A piece of cake, Harley thought. And he could save himself a lot of money in cab fares by buying in bulk. He wondered if there was a place nearby, a Kodak distribution center, where he could pick up the remaining 174 cameras he needed. Maybe he could have them delivered. Who would know? Or care?
Sylvester Montrofort was locked in his office, talking into the tape recorder secreted in the top right-hand drawer of his desk.
"Of course, by now that idiot is buying cameras in bulk. His is not the generation that can either follow instructions or do things the careful, correct way. Having him bungle will just make it that much easier for him to be picked up when the correct time comes. The fool."
Montrofort wanted to laugh but couldn't. He
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tried to picture Osgood Harley in his mind's eye but all he could see was the formidable battlements of Viola Poombs, who was coming to dinner that night at his apartment.
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CHAPTER TEN
"Hello, young fellow."
"How are you, Mr. President?" The speaker of the House of Representatives was almost twenty years older than the President and had been fighting in political wars when the President was still in high school. But he accepted the warmth of the President's greeting with the eternal optimism of the professional politican, trying to convince himself that it was not just de rigueur warmth but an evidence of some deep-felt admiration, affection, and trust. This was made more difficult by the fact that he knew in his heart that this President, like all the others, would peel off his skin and tan it for huaraches if that was demanded by either the national interest or the presidential whim.
"We've got to have lunch," the President said.
"My place or yours?" asked the speaker.
"I know I'm new around here but that's the first time I've ever been mistaken for a nooner," the President said lightly. "Better make it mine. The last time I ate over at the Capitol, there were roaches in the building. I can't stand roaches."
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"That was a long time ago, Mr. President. We haven't had roaches in two years."
"I'll take your word for it, youngster, but let's eat over here."
"What time, sir?"
"Make it one o'clock." The President paused. "And don't go telling any of those damned Boston Irish politicians where you'll be. We got us some heavy talking to do."
The speaker of the House listened through the soup and nodded through the salad but before the fried liver with bacon and onions arrived, he said, "You can't do it. That's all there goddam is to it, you can't do it."
The President raised a cautionary finger to his lips and the two men waited in awkward silence for the waiter to bring in their luncheon plates and clear away the soup and salad bowls.
When the private White House dining room was again empty but for them, the President said, "I've thought this through. I can't not do it."
"You're my President, goddam it. You can't go jeopardizing your life this way."
"Maybe. But I'm also the President of this country and if the President is going to be held hostage by the whims of some, I don't know what he is, lunatic, then this country better know about it, because it can't be governed any more and maybe we ought to find that out right away. I'm not going to spend four years hiding in here, skulking around, ducking under windowsills every time I walk past glass."
"That's a narrow view, sir," the speaker said hotly. "I've had one President shot out from un-
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der me and I've had another one blown away by his own stupidity. I'd rather have the President hiding and the presidency endure than have a brave President shot down. And on the Capitol steps? You can't do it. Case closed. Roma locuta est."