Remo turned back to the Vice-President.
"Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. It's like this. Chiun and I don't have any stake in your election or in CURE because we're going back to Korea soon. Smith asked us to protect you before we go. That's why we're here. But I thought I'd put in a good word for Smith while we're here. He's really a nice guy when you get to know him. And he's pretty good with the taxpayers' money. Tight-fisted, you know."
"But generous where it counts," added Chiun.
"We want you to know he's not behind the attack on your life, and to prove it and to prove how effective the operation is, we're going to stay with you until we're sure there won't be another attack on your life. That clear?"
The Vice-President tried to nod. He could not move. His feet tingled and he was sure they were falling asleep. "Oh, sorry," said Remo, reaching out to massage the throat nerve that sent the Vice-President collapsing into his seat. "How's that?"
"Sinanju?" the Vice-President asked huskily.
"You know about that too?" asked Chiun curiously.
"Yes. It was all in the letter."
"What letter told you about Sinanju?" demanded Chiun.
"The one signed Tulip."
Remo turned to Chiun. "Do you know any Tulip?"
"No. I would not have for a friend one who would call himself that. We will ask Smith. Possibly he knows this Tulip."
"Why don't you both go do that little thing?" the Vice-President suggested. "I would like to get some sleep, if you don't mind."
"Sure," said Remo. "We just wanted you to know we were on the job."
"Fine. Consider it written down in my diary."
"We'll be outside if you need us," said Remo, heading for the door. The Master of Sinanju followed him.
Remo paused in the doorway. "You won't forget what I said about Smith and the operation, will you?"
"Never," promised the Vice-President.
"Great," said Remo, giving the Vice-President an A-okay sign with his fingers.
When the door shut, the Vice-President looked for a telephone. He'd get help down here so fast those two would never know what happened. But he saw no telephone in the bedroom. Frantically he looked everywhere. In the side tables, by the window, even under the bed. Finally he realized there wasn't one.
Doffing his bathrobe, the Vice-President crawled into the bed and tried to sleep. Come morning, the Secret Service shift would be changed. Then those two would see what they were in for. And Smith would too. National security be damned. Dr. Harold W. Smith had overstepped himself this time and the Vice-President was going to see that man clapped in a federal cell if it was his last official act as Vice-President.
Chapter 11
Secret Service agent Orrin Snell knew how to read the street. He was trained to zero in on the subtle details that never registered on the ordinary person. The little things that were out of place or not quite right. A man walking with his hand hovering instead of hanging limp meant that that person carried a sidearm and was prepared to use it. A furtive walk meant a man who feared notice or pursuit. A car moving too slowly could mean anything, but one moving too fast could only mean trouble.
Agent Snell could hear trouble coming four blocks away. He knew it even before his walkie-talkie crackled the message.
"Late-model Ford coming at you at a high rate of speed. Two males in the front, no further description."
"Backup!" Snell barked, dropping into a crouch behind the concrete barriers on the curb. He set his walkie-talkie down at his feet and pulled his revolver, holding it double-handed.
The car squealed to a stop, fishtailing. Its doors banged open and two men in dungaree jackets and colorful kaffiyehs masking their faces exploded out of either side. They carried Uzis.
Agent Snell called for them to drop their weapons. That was his mistake.
A hand grenade arched up from one of the attackers' hands and landed behind him, bouncing twice before it detonated.
Snell felt nothing at first. Then there was a crushing noise and his top of his head seemed to squeeze in on itself. When he opened his eyes, he was on his back, his head somehow resting against a concrete barrier so that he was looking down at himself.
His legs resembled twin meatball sandwiches in the torn wrappers of his trousers. The right one was doubled under his thigh. he could not move either leg. He groped for his revolver, but it was nowhere to be found.
At that moment his backups arrived from around the corner. They stopped, took in the sight of agent Snell bleeding on the sidewalk, and their faces registered the shock of what they saw.
Snell tried to shout at them. Don't look at me, you idiots. Get the ones who did this. What's the matter with you? No words came.
Then two figures jumped from behind the barriers and cut both agents down.
The two attackers went for Blair House's massive double doors. They applied a plastic charge to the lock, jumped back, and waited for the explosion.
A mushy whoom came and the doors fell in.
The two terrorists followed the doors inside, their kaffiyehs protecting them against the smoke and swirling plaster dust.
On the ground, Orrin Snell tried to find his gun. His hand brushed something. Through pain-racked eyes he saw that it was his walkie-talkie. He fumbled it onto his chest.
"Two men . . . Uzis . . . inside front door. Stop them," he muttered painfully.
Static answered him. And there was no sound of returning fire from inside Blair House.
What was the matter with them? Snell thought dazedly. Why weren't the inner guards responding? Were they all asleep?
"Still asleep," said Remo, peeking into the room.
He rejoined Chiun in the hall. The Master of Sinanju sat on an antique chair. A long scroll lay in his lap.
"What's that you're working on?" Remo asked.
"Nothing," said Chiun absently, shifting in his chair so that Remo could not see what he was writing.
"Looks like one of your histories, but I know you left them all back in Sinanju."
"Correct," said Chiun.
"Then what?"
"It is none of your business."