"Sure. It's what we want most in life. Personal publicity."
"Good," Viola said. "Then it'll be a great book and I'll make tons of money."
"And pay tons of taxes."
"Not me," said Viola. "I'll figure out a way to squirrel it away."
They were on the sidewalk now, walking away from the Capitol.
"Oh, that's right," Remo said. "Swiss bank accounts."
They were almost out of eyesight of the guards. Then he would leave this dip.
"Swiss accounts? Kindergarten stuff," Viola said. Where had she heard that, she wondered. "You just wash your money through a Swiss bank, then you transfer it around into a lot of
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African accounts . . ." Why did she say that? Why Africa? She knew nothing about Africa. "And it gets lost there and nobody can trace it."
Remo stopped on the street and took Viola's elbows in his hands. He turned to face her. "What do you know about washing money through Swiss banks and African accounts?"
"Nothing. I don't even know why I said that. Why are you looking like that? What'd I say ?"
"You must know something about it to talk like that," Remo said. "One of those congressmen you work for. Was it Poopsie who told you that?"
"Poopsie? No. He didn't," Viola said.
"Who then ?" asked Remo.
"I don't know. Why?"
"You've got to know. The guy I'm looking for does that with his money. And I've got to find him."
The squeezing by Remo's hands hurt her elbows.
"It's important," he said.
"Let me think. Let go of my elbows. They hurt."
"They'll help you think. Kind of stops the mind from wandering."
She screwed up her face in pain as Remo squeezed.
"Okay, let go. I got it now."
"Who is it?"
"First let go," Viola said.
Remo released her arms.
"Montrofort," she said.
"Montrofort?Who..."
"The dwarf with the nice teeth," Viola said. She wondered why she'd said that.
"At Paldor?" Remo said.
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Viola nodded. "He told me the other night, about how you do money and everything. He said African banks." It was coming back to her now.
"What'd you say?" Remo asked.
"I said if he touched me, I'd roll him into the fireplace," Viola said.
"Reasonable. You have to do me a favor. Can you take a message to Chiun?"
"Why don't you just telephone him?"
"He has this way of answering phones which involves ripping the wires out of the wall and crushing the instruments to powder."
"All right. I'll do it."
"Go tell Chiun that we know'it's Montrofort. Got that so far?"
"I'm not stupid. What's the message?"
"We know it's Montrofort. I'm going to go get him. Tell Chiun to stop the President from coming to the Capitol today."
"How's he going to be able to do that?"
"The first step he'll take will be to tell you I'm an idiot. And then he'll figure out a way to do it. Hurry now. It's important," Remo said. He told Viola the suite number in their hotel, and then turned and ran off down the street to find Sylvester Montrofort.
They had started coming to Osgood Harley's walkup at five o'clock in the morning.
He no longer had 200 friends in what used to be called the peace movement. But he still had twenty. And those twenty had friends. And those friends had friends. And to each of them, Harley gave a camera and instructions, told them that at the least they could keep the cameras and sell them, and told them how much fun it would be to
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raise a little hell with a presidential speech. Some got cap pistols. To his three closest associates, Harley gave a camera, instructions, and a small tape player, a roll of adhesive tape, and more instructions.
And in the early morning, he was among the group that started to gather in the plaza in front of the Capitol. There wasn't much happening yet. He saw some of his own people. Two guards stood at the speakers' platform watching everybody. The Capitol itself looked empty. Nobody going in or out. The only sign of life was some guy with thick wrists and dead eyes standing on the steps, talking to a woman in a white linen suit with a bust so incredible it made him yearn for the good old days when girls thought the best way to get peace was to give a piece.
The President of the United States had quietly changed his plans the night before. The nerves were getting to him a little. He had not heard from Dr. Smith at CURE. The Secret Service had learned nothing new. He hoped through dinner for a visit from Smith's two field men, Mr. Remo and Mr. Chiun.
But they had not come and so, after dinner he helicoptered to Camp David to spend the night. The next morning he would fly back to Washington, right to the Capitol grounds, for his address.
"Remo is an idiot."
Viola Poombs had found Chiun in the hotel room. He had not answered her knocks on the door, but the door was surprisingly unlocked. Who left hotel room doors unlocked anymore?
Inside she found Chiun sitting on a reed mat,
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reading a heavy leather-bound book. He smiled when she entered and closed the book.
"I have found The Hole," he said.
"I guess that's good. Remo says you have to stop the President from speaking today."
"That Remo is an idiot. Where is he now? Why doesn't he do anything himself? Why must I? Remo is an idiot."
"He said you would say that," Viola said.
"He did? Did he say I would say he was a pale piece of pig's ear?"
Viola shook her head.
"Duck droppings?"
She shook her head no again.
"An impossible attempt to make diamonds from river mud?"
"No. He didn't say that," admitted Viola.
"Good. Then I have a few things to tell him myself when he returns. Where is he now?"
"He's gone after Sylvester Montrofort. He said that he's the one."
"One should never trust a man like that," Chiun said.
"You mean a cripple?"
"No. One who smiles so much."
"What did you mean, you found The Hole?" Viola asked.
"It is all here in this book," Chiun said. He pointed to the blue-bound summary of the Warren Commission report. "If Remo knew how to read I would not have to do clerk's work. You find him and tell him that. And tell him that I will do this last thing for him, but none of it has been contracted for, and this will have to be adjusted later. How much am I expected to do? Is it not enough that I have spent ten years trying to
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teach a pig to whistle? Now I am supposed to make your emperor stay home today. And will Remo want me to do it right ? No, he'll say. Don't you dare hurt the emperor, Chiun. Be nice, Chiun, he will say. All right. I will do this last thing. I will go to this ugly white building at number 1600 Philadelphia Avenue ..."
"Pennsylvania Avenue?" Viola said.
"They are the same," Chiun said.
"No, they're not."
"I will go there nevertheless to do this thing. But after that, no more Mister Nice Guy. Tell Remo that."
"I will. I will."
"And be sure to put it in your book," Chiun said.
The crowd had doubled and redoubled in only minutes. Now there were more than a thousand persons crowded around the Capitol steps and the small plaza in front of the building, awaiting the arrival of the President. Osgood Harley looked around for faces he recognized. He saw more than a do/en that he knew. But he knew he had more people there than that. He could tell by the new Instamatics hanging from cords around people's necks, scores and scores of them. He smiled to himself and casually patted the tape player he had attached to the inside of his right thigh with adhesive tape, under his baggy khaki pants. Soon now.
The door to Sylvester Montrofort's private office was locked. When Remo stepped on the pressure plate on the receptionist's side of the door, it did not open.
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Remo dug his fingers, like wood chisels, into the end of the walnut door, near the lock. His hardened fingertips bit into the polished wood as if it were marshmallow. He curled his fingers, and threw his body back along the direction of the door's slide. The door slipped its lock and slammed open with a shuddering thud.